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VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


BOOKS BY NINA RHOADES 


MARION’S VACATION. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25 
DOROTHY BROWN. Illustrated. l2mo. Cloth. $1.50 
VICTORINE’S BOOK. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25 


FOR YOUNGER READERS 

“The Brick House Books” 

The sight of the brick house on the cover makes girl 
readers happy at once. — Indianapolis News. 

Illustrated. Large 12mo. Cloth. $1.00 each 

ONLY DOLLIE 

THE LITTLE GIRL NEXT DOOR 
WINIFRED’S NEIGHBORS 
THE CHILDREN ON THE TOP FLOOR 
HOW BARBARA KEPT HER PROMISE 
LITTLE MISS ROSAMOND 
PRISCILLA OF THE DOLL SHOP 
BRAVE LITTLE PEGGY 
THE OTHER SYLVIA 
MAISIE’S MERRY CHRISTMAS 


LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 

BOSTON 




“It is my duty to take you to America.” — Page 51 



YICTORINE’S BOOK 


BY 


NINA RHOADES 

f 


ILLUSTRATED BY ELIZABETH WITHINGTON 



BOSTON 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 


\ Published, Ausrust, 1911 



Copyright, 1911, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 


All Rights Reserved 


Victorine’s Book 


{ 



NORWOOD PRESS 

BERWICK & SMITH CO. 

NORWOOD, MASS. 

U. S. A. 


©CI.A^!)38C2 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


is my duty to take you to America^^ 

(Page 51) Frontispiece ^ 

FACING FAGS 

I WISH I KNEW THOSE TWO AMERICAN GIRLS 

WHO WALK SO MUCH 64 *' 

I NEVER SAW POOR TaNTE SO ANGRY IN MY LIFE . 128 * 

^‘WlTH PLEASURE, MaDAME,’^ I SAID .... 162*' 

^‘YOU HAVE GIVEN ME SUCH ENCOURAGEMENT, 

Madame” 238'^ 

‘^WlND^S DIED OUT,” SAID ChARLIE .... 254 


/ 



VICTORINE’S BOOK 


Nice, June Fibst, 19 — 



ANTE has gone to her room with a 


headache, and I have come ont here 
in the garden to begin my book. It seems 
very strange to think of my writing a book. 
I never even dreamed of doing such a thing 
until yesterday, when I finished reading 
‘^The Story of Colette.’’ As a rule Tante 
does not allow me to read novels, but Ma- 
dame Delacourt allowed Bose and Blanche 
to read “The Story of Colette,” and I 
heard her tell Tante it was a sweet, harm- 
less little book. So when Blanche offered 
to lend it to me, Tante said I might read 
it if I chose, and of course I did choose. 
I do not suppose “Colette” would be 
called a very exciting novel — Blanche says 


1 


2 VICTOEINE’S BOOK 

she considers it rather dull — but then it 
is the first novel I have ever read, and 
perhaps that is why I enjoyed it so much. 
I was so interested that I sat up reading 
last night until long after my usual bed- 
time, and I was just finishing the last page 
when Suzanne came upstairs, and seeing 
the light still burning in my room, came 
in to ask why I was up so late. If it had 
been Tante or Miss Merton they would 
have scolded, but dear old Suzanne never 
scolds. She just shook her head reprov- 
ingly, and when I promised to go to bed 
at once, went away without saying a word. 
Suzanne says she knows what it is to be 
young. I should think Tante would know, 
too, for of course she must have been 
young once herself, but she never seems 
to understand why people care about doing 
things that she does not care for. 

In a good many ways Tante is not unlike 
Colette ^s aunt in the book. I believe that 
thought was the first thing that gave me 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


3 


the idea of writing a book myself. Colette 
wrote a book all about herself, and when 
she began, she did not believe anything 
really interesting would ever happen to 
her, because nothing unusual ever had 
taken place in her life, but a great many 
interesting things did happen, and in the 
end she married a charming young man. 
To be sure, Colette was eighteen when she 
began to write, and I am only fourteen, 
and I am not at all sure that I should care 
to marry any one — at least not for a good 
many years — but I do want something in- 
teresting to happen. I feel very much as 
Colette did about that, and really, when I 
come to think of it, my life is not at all 
unlike hers. I have lived alone with my 
aunt ever since I was four years old, and 
not a single interesting thing has ever hap- 
pened to me as far back as I can remem- 
ber. I lay awake for a long time last 
night after I had finished ^‘Colette,’’ and 
all at once the thought came to me that I 


4 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


would write a book. I have so much spare 
time now that Miss Merton has gone back 
to England, and there are no lessons to 
do, and writing a book will help to pass 
the days, and keep me from being lonely 
and envying Rose and Blanche. Tante 
says envy is a very wicked thing, and I 
must root it out of my soul. I do not want 
to be wicked, and I try hard not to be, but 
it is so dull to do precisely the same things 
every day. I wish I could go to school at 
the convent as the Delacourts do, but 
Tautens ancestors were all Huguenots, and 
she is a very strict Protestant, so of course 
she does not approve of girls being edu- 
cated in convents. Then my father is an 
American and it was his particular re- 
quest that I should be taught English and 
brought up as English and American girls 
are. So Tante engaged Miss Merton to 
teach me English, and all the other things 
an American girl has to know. If Miss 
Merton had been young and pretty, or 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


5 


even a little more kind and sympathetic, 
I think I might have loved her, hut she is 
almost as old as Tante herself, and, oh, so 
prim and correct ! I do not believe either 
Tante or Miss Merton ever did anything 
incorrect in their lives, and yet I am sure 
Miss Merton found it dull here, and that 
that was the real reason she went back to 
England last month, and not to keep house 
for her married sister, as she told us. 
Tante says it is wrong to suspect people’s 
motives, but I am sure Suzanne thinks just 
as I do. Tante is going to secure another 
English governess for me as soon as pos- 
sible, but in the meantime I have nothing 
to do all day long, and I think writing a 
book will be a great amusement, even if 
nothing interesting ever happens to put in 
it. So when Suzanne and I went for our 
walk this morning, I bought a big fat 
blank book, in which I am now writing the 
first page. 

I have read so few stories that I hardly 


6 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


know how to begin. Most of them give a 
description of the heroine in the first place, 
and as this is to be principally abont my- 
self, I suppose I had better begin by tell- 
ing all there is to tell. My name is Vic- 
torine Maitland, and I am just fourteen 
years old. My mother was Tante’s 
younger sister, and my father is an Amer- 
ican. Both my grandparents died when 
my mother was still a little girl and Tante 
— who was many years older — ^brought 
her up. I think my mother must have 
been very beautiful, and it makes me sad 
that I cannot remember her. Tante loved 
her very dearly, and so did her husband. 
Uncle Victor. They were both very un- 
happy when my mother married and went 
away to America. Tante says America is 
a dreadful country, which she never wishes 
to see. 

A great many sad things happened to 
Tante after my mother went away. First 
Uncle Victor died, and then her eldest son. 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


7 


Maurice, was killed by a fall from his 
horse, and the next year her other son, 
Paul, did something dreadful that Tante 
could never forgive. I have often won- 
dered what it could have been, but have 
never dared to ask. I have never heard 
Tante mention his name, and there are no 
photographs of him about as there are of 
Uncle Victor, and Maurice and my mother. 
I suppose Suzanne knows, for she has been 
Tante ^s maid for more than twenty years, 
but I have never heard her speak of Paul, 
either. 

I lived in America until I was four, when 
my mother died, and then my father 
brought me over here to Tante. I some- 
times wonder why he did not keep me with 
him, and bring me up himself, but Suzanne 
says he was young and gay, and had no ex- 
perience in the care of little children. 
His own mother was dead, and he had no 
sisters or near relatives of any kind. I 
wish I could remember my mother, or my 


8 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


home in New York, but everything is a 
blank in my mind until I came here. 
Tante says I had been a delicate baby, and 
was backward for my age, and that is prob- 
ably the reason why I do not remember 
more. After Uncle Victor died, Tante 
gave up .her apartment in Paris and came 
here to live, and it was to this very ville, 
looking out over the Mediterranean, that 
my father brought me ten years ago, and 
here I have been ever since. 

I remember my father quite well, al- 
though it is six years since I have seen 
him. He used to come for a week or two 
every year until I was eight, and then sud- 
denly stopped. I think be and Tante bad 
a quarrel, though I have never beard what 
it was about. Tante always speaks of him 
with great respect, but in her heart I am 
sure she does not really like him. I wish 
I knew why, but Tante is not a person of 
whom one can ask many questions. I 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


9 


should like to love my father as the Dela- 
courts love theirs, but it is not possible to 
love a person very much whom one hasn’t 
seen since one was a little girl. I remem- 
ber how he looked, a big, broad-shouldered 
man, who spoke French with a queer for- 
eign accent, and taught me English sen- 
tences, of which I did not know the mean- 
ing. When I repeated these sentences 
after him, he used to shout with laughter, 
which hurt my feelings, because I was sure 
he was making fun of me. I do not think 
he could have been a very serious person, 
for he was always laughing and joking 
with Tante. Tante is very serious her- 
self, and does not care much for people 
who joke, and perhaps that is one reason 
why she does not like my father. He was 
always kind to me, though, even if he did 
laugh at me, and he used to bring me beau- 
tiful toys, which Tante used to put away 
afterward, because she said it was waste- 


10 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


ful to indulge children in such frivolities. 
I think a good many are still packed away 
in the attic. 

The last time my father was here he 
talked to me more seriously than he had 
ever done before. He took me on his knee 
one day, and told me I was growing a big 
girl, and that I must hurry to learn Eng- 
lish, as he should be sending for me to 
come to America before long. I was quite 
excited at the thought of going to America, 
and for a long time kept hoping that he 
would send for me, but he never did, and 
when I once asked Tante about it, she 
looked very solemn, and told me not to 
talk about such foolish things. 

That was six years ago, and my father 
has never been here since. When I was 
ten Miss Merton came, and I began to 
study English in earnest. I donT like 
English much; it is very difficult, and not 
nearly as pretty as French. I have to talk 
it with Miss Merton when we are alone to- 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


11 


gether, but Tante dislikes English very 
much, and never wishes to hear it spoken 
in her presence. Miss Merton says my 
accent is dreadful, and that I am very stu- 
pid about learning the grammar, but I can 
read and write English pretty well. 
Every three months I have to write an 
English letter to my father. Miss Merton 
looks these letters over very carefully, and 
I have to correct all the mistakes. I am 
afraid they are very stiff, formal letters, 
but what can one think of to say to a per- 
son one has not seen for six years? Be- 
sides, Miss Merton would criticize every- 
thing I did, and she is very prim. My fa- 
ther does not write to me very often, but 
when he does his letters are always kind. 
I cannot read his handwriting very well, 
and he sometimes uses queer English ex- 
pressions that I do not understand, but I 
am sure he must be an amusing person, 
because he often writes things that make 
me laugh. I wish he would come to see me 


12 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


again, for then he would realize that I am 
no longer a little girl, and he might treat 
me less like a baby. Only last Christmas 
he sent me a doll. She was a beautiful 
doll, to be sure, and she had a trunkful 
of lovely clothes, but he ought to realize 
that a girl of fourteen is too old for dolls. 
I would have liked to remind him of my 
age when I wrote to thank him, but was 
afraid Tante and Miss Merton might not 
consider it the proper thing to do. 

I do not suppose my father will ever 
send for me to go to America now, and I 
am not sure that I should care to go even 
if he did. Tante says America is a dread- 
ful country, and most of the Americans are 
parvenus. Tante considers a parvenu a 
very objectionable person indeed. I sup- 
pose that is because all her ancestors were 
of the nohlesse, but if the Americans are 
gay and amusing like my father, I am sure 
I should like them. No one is amusing 
here, and if it were not for spending an oc- 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


13 


casional day with the Delaconrts, I think 
I should almost forget how to laugh. Of 
course it is natural that Tante should be 
serious, she has had such a sad life, and 
Suzanne always tries to follow Tante ’s 
example in everything, but I wish Miss 
Merton had not been quite so solemn, too. 
I do hope my next governess will be just a 
little younger. 

Ever since I was a little girl we have 
done precisely the same things every day. 
Each morning Suzanne wakes me at eight, 
and I have my chocolate in bed. As soon 
as I am dressed I go to the school-room, 
and have lessons till dejeuner, Tante 
spends the mornings in her room, reading 
and writing letters, and we seldom meet 
before dejeuner. In the afternoon I study 
and practise till three o^clock, and then 
go for a walk. I should prefer walking in 
the town, and looking in at the shop win- 
dows, but Tante does not approve of 
young girls being seen in the streets, so we 


14 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


generally walk on the Promenade Anglaise, 
or else ont into the country. At four the 
carriage comes, and I go for a drive with 
Tante. Dinner is at seven, and in the 
evening we sit in the salon, and Tante 
reads the newspapers aloud, or I play to 
her for half an hour before bed-time. I 
am always in bed by half -past nine. This 
is our life summer and winter. The only 
ditference is that in winter we drive ear- 
lier in the afternoon, and I walk and prac- 
tise later. It is very hot here in summer, 
and most of the people go away, but Tante 
detests traveling, so we never do, although 
sometimes we are made almost ill by the 
intense heat. Since Miss Merton went 
away Suzanne has taken me to walk, but 
there have been no lessons to fill up the 
time and although I used to think I would 
rather do anything in the world than 
study, I must confess that I often find the 
days very long indeed. 

I suppose when people write books they 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


15 


generally describe themselves. I am 
rather tall for my age, and I have 
dark hair and brown eyes. I do not think 
I am exactly pretty, bnt Miss Merton says, 
‘‘Handsome is that handsome does.’’ 
That is an English proverb, and she said 
I must remember all the English quota- 
tions she taught me. Tante says I am 
like my father, and I think she wishes I 
were more like my mother. Indeed I wish 
so, too, for my mother was very beautiful. 
I love to look at her portrait, which hangs 
in the salon, and oh, how I do wish she 
could come back, and take me in her arms 
once, and kiss me in the way mothers kiss 
their children! I never thought Madame 
Delacourt a very interesting woman, but 
once when we were playing tag in the gar- 
den, Blanche fell and hurt her knee. It 
was only a bruise, but it hurt her very 
much, and she grew so white that we were 
afraid she was going to faint. Eose ran 
to call her mother, and when Madame came 


16 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


slie took Blanche in her arms, and there 
was such a beautiful tender light in her 
eyes, that I could do nothing but stand still 
and gaze at her in astonishment. I know 
Tante loves me, but when I was ill with 
scarlet fever she never looked at me as 
Madame Delacourt looked at Blanche, who 
had only bruised her knee. 

Tante is very, very good. She is so 
good that almost every one is just a little 
afraid of her. I love her very dearly, but 
I cannot help wishing sometimes that she 
were not quite so good. I think I should 
feel more intimate with her if she were a 
little more like other people. I should not 
dare to put my head on her shoulder, and 
ask her to pet me and tell me stories, as I 
often do to Suzanne, who is only a maid. 
Suzanne adores Tante; she says she is al- 
most a saint, and if she were a Catholic 
she would surely have been a nun. Tante 
always goes to church every Sunday, rain 
or shine, and she sews for the poor, and 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


17 


sends great boxes of clothes away to for- 
eign missions, but I do not think I have 
ever heard her laugh in my life. She is 
very tall, and she has always dressed in 
black since Uncle Victor died. Almost all 
the people she has ever loved are dead, and 
I suppose that is why she is so serious, 
but Suzanne says my father adored my 
mother, and yet I am sure he is not at all 
serious. 

I do not think there is anything in par- 
ticular to describe but the villa. It is very 
much like all the other villas that I have 
seen. I love my room, because the win- 
dows look out on the sea, and when the 
waves are high I can hear them beating 
against the cliffs at night. I love the gar- 
den, too, where I have walked, and read, 
and played, ever since I can remember. 
Oh, Nice is a beautiful place; there is no 
doubt about that, but I should like to see 
some other places if only for the sake of 
comparison. 


18 VICTOEINE’S BOOK 

But here comes Suzanne to tell me it is 
time to dress for dinner. I do not want 
Tante to know about my book — at least 
not yet. She would be sure to say writing 
a book was a great waste of time. 

June Second. 

I lay awake for a long time last night 
thinking about my book. I was so afraid 
that now that I had told all there was to 
tell about myself, I should never be able 
to think of anything more to say. But to- 
day something really interesting has hap- 
pened, and I am beginning to feel quite en- 
couraged again. 

When Suzanne brought me my chocolate 
this morning, she looked very solemn and 
she told me that Tante would be in seclu- 
sion all day. 

‘‘Why, what is to-day, Suzanne T’ I 
asked in surprise, for I thought I knew all 
Tante ’s anniversaries by heart. Uncle 
Victor died in February, and Maurice was 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


19 


killed in April, and my mother’s anniver- 
sary does not come till July. 

‘‘This is a very sad anniversary,” said 
Suzanne. “It is just eleven years ago to- 
day that Monsieur Paul went away.” 

I said “oh,” and felt my cheeks grow 
hot. It is very foolish, I know, but it al- 
ways makes me uncomfortable when peo- 
ple speak of Paul. I suppose it is because 
there has always been such a mystery about 
him. There are not many things that I 
should be afraid to ask Suzanne, but I re- 
member that once a long time ago, I said 
something to her about my cousin Paul, 
and she told me quite sharply that there 
were some subjects little girls should not 
inquire about. So I said no more on the 
subject this morning, and Suzanne went 
away again as soon as she had given me my 
chocolate. 

Anniversaries are always very solemn 
days, and I cannot help wishing sometimes 
that there were not quite so many of them 


20 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


to remember. Tante never forgets an an- 
niversary, and as all her anniversaries are 
sad ones, we naturally have a good many 
sad days in the year. Tante generally re- 
mains in seclusion all day, and even if she 
comes down to dinner, she looks so very 
solemn that I feel I must be solemn, too. 

To-day Tante did not come downstairs 
at all, and I had dejeuner alone, and then 
went for a walk with Suzanne, who was 
very silent all the way, and kept sighing 
every few minutes. Suzanne always tries 
to imitate Tante in everything, and so she 
is solemn on anniversaries, too. It was a 
very long, dull day, and I was glad when 
dinner-time came. I could have written in 
my book if I had been able to think of any- 
thing to say, but as I could not, I read 
^^Mon Oncle et Mon Cure^^ instead. ^^Mon 
Oncle et Mon Cure** is not nearly as inter- 
esting as ‘^The Story of Colette,’’ and then 
I have read it three times already, so I 
know it almost by heart. Still, it was bet- 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


21 


ter than nothing. Tante is very particular 
about what a young girl should read and 
although there are a great many hooks in 
the library, I am never allowed to open one 
without her permission. Miss Merton 
says there are many delightful books for 
young girls in English, but reading Eng- 
lish is so difficult, and there are always so 
many words one has to look up in the dic- 
tionary. 

The only pleasant thing that happened 
all day was a note from Madame Dela- 
court, which came in the afternoon post, 
asking me to spend to-morrow with Eose 
and Blanche. It is Thursday, and the 
girls always come home from the convent 
in time for dejeuner on Thursdays, and all 
the rest of the day is spent in recreation. 
I sometimes wonder what would become of 
me without the Delacourts, for they are 
the only friends of my own age that I have 
ever had. Tante and Madame Delacourt 
are old friends, and I have known Eose 


22 VICTOEINE^S BOOK 

and Blanche ever since we were all little 
girls. There are plenty of other young 
people in Nice, of course, but Tante has led 
such a secluded life since Uncle Victor’s 
death, that she has made scarcely any ac- 
quaintances. The Delacourts are both 
dear girls. Eose is very religious, and 
hopes her parents will allow her to enter a 
convent when she is older, but Blanche 
wants to go to dances and be a belle. I 
think I am a little more fond of Blanche, 
but I respect Eose very much, and no one 
could help loving her, she is so sweet and 
good. I am to go to the Delacourts’ to- 
morrow in time for dejeuner, and stay until 
late in the afternoon. 

I dined alone, and then went into the sa- 
lon, and played on the piano for a little 
while. But at half -past eight I began to 
feel sleepy, and as there seemed no reason 
for staying up, I thought I might as well 
go to bed. I went upstairs, but it seemed 
sad to go to bed without saying good-night 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


23 


to any one, and as I did not know where 
Suzanne was, I paused outside Tante’s 
door, intending to ask if I might go in 
just for a moment. I did not think she 
would object, for even when she is in se- 
clusion she likes to have me come to bid 
her good-night. Besides, I wanted to tell 
her about Madame Delacourt’s invitation 
for to-morrow. The door was closed, and 
when I knocked softly there was no an- 
swer. I thought Tante might be in bed, 
and was just turning away, when I dis- 
tinctly heard some one crying in the room. 
I was so astonished that I stood quite still 
and listened. I do not think I have ever 
heard Tante cry before, for although she 
is so sad, she is always very calm and com- 
posed. Oh, it was dreadful I It makes me 
want to cry myself when I think of those 
terrible sobs. I could not believe it was 
Tante, and yet who else could be in that 
room? I know I ought to have gone away, 
but I did not. I must have stood there for 


24 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


at least five minutes, and all the time those 
terrible sobs never stopped. At last I 
softly turned the door-handle, and almost 
before I knew what was happening, the 
door had swung open a little way, and I 
was looking in. I shall never forget what 
I saw. There was no one in the room but 
Tante, and she was kneeling by the bed, 
with her hands clasped as if she were say- 
ing her prayers, while the tears streamed 
down her cheeks. I wanted to run to her, 
and put my arms around her, but did not 
dare, and so I just stood there in the door- 
way staring at her, with my heart beating 
so loud I was almost afraid she would hear 
it. But she did not seem to hear anything. 
She went on sobbing and moaning as if her 
heart were breaking, and once I heard her 
say, ‘‘Oh, God forgive me! Oh, my boy, 
my boy ! ’ ’ Then all at once I remembered 
that she was in seclusion because this is 
the anniversary of the day Paul went 
away, and I knew she was crying for him. 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


25 


I knew, too, that I had no right to stand 
there staring and listening, and it made 
me hot all over to think how long I had 
been doing it. I closed the door again as 
softly as I conld, and was just turning 
away when I saw Suzanne coming up the 
stairs, with a cup of soup and some bis- 
cuits on a tray. I knew by her expression 
that she had seen me, and suspected what 
I had been doing, but I was too excited and 
distressed to care. I ran to her, and 
caught hold of her dress. 

“Oh, Suzanne,” I cried, “what is it? 
Tante is crying, and, oh, it is all so strange, 
and I am so frightened! Please tell me 
what it means.” 

Suzanne looked at me for a moment in si- 
lence, and then she said : 

“Go to your room. Mademoiselle Vic- 
torine, and I will come to you as soon as 
I have brought Madame her soup. She 
has eaten nothing since early this morn- 
ing.” 


26 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


I obeyed, and spent the next ten minntes 
lying on my bed, crying almost as hard as 
Tante herself. It was so long before Su- 
zanne came that I was beginning to fear 
she was angry with me for having listened 
at Tante ’s door, and intended to punish 
me by not coming at all, when at last there 
was a knock at my door, and she came in. 
Her eyes were red, but she seemed quite 
calm, and when she had closed the door, 
and sat down in the low chair by the open 
window, I came and knelt on the floor, with 
my head in her lap. 

‘‘Now, Suzanne dear, tell me all about 
it,’^ I said, in the coaxing tone always 
used when I want her to do something par- 
ticular for me. 

“There is nothing to tell, ma cherie/* 
said Suzanne, stroking my hair with her 
kind, rough hand. 

‘ ‘ Why is Tante crying so T ’ I asked. ‘ ‘ I 
never saw her cry before.^’ 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


27 


‘ ‘ She is crying for Monsieur Paul, ’ ’ said 
Suzanne, with a sigh. ‘‘Madame is al- 
ways sad on this anniversary; it is the 
saddest day of all the year to her.’’ 

“But why?” I persisted, for now that 
I had begun the subject, I was determined 
to go on, “why does it make her so much 
more unhappy to think of Paul than to 
think of all the others — Uncle Victor, and 
Maurice and my mother ; did she love Paul 
best?” 

“Sometimes I almost think she did,” 
said Suzanne, softly. “Madame was a 
most devoted wife, and she and Monsieur 
were very happy together. Monsieur 
Maurice, too, was a good son, and Madame 
loved him dearly, but Monsieur Paul — ah. 
Monsieur Paul was different. Then, Ma- 
dame knows the others are happy in Par- 
adise ; it was the will of the good God that 
they should be taken, but Monsieur Paul 
may be still on the earth, and yet his 


28 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


mother can never see him. Ah, my child, 
such a sorrow is worse than death, far 
worse. 

“Suzanne,’’ I said suddenly, my heart 
beating fast at the boldness of the ques- 
tion, “tell me, what did my cousin Paul 
do?” 

Suzanne gave a start, and her voice 
sounded a little frightened as she an- 
swered : 

“Is it possible that you do not know — 
has Madame never told you?” 

“Tante has never mentioned Paul’s 
name to me,” I said, “and I have never 
dared to ask any one about him. But I 
want very much to know. Please do tell 
me, dear Suzanne.” 

Suzanne looked doubtful, and shook her 
head, but she did not set her lips in the 
way she does when she intends to be very 
firm, and I began to hope that my curios- 
ity was at last to be gratified. 

“If Madame has never told you,” she 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


29 


said, slowly, ‘‘it must be because she does 
not wish you to know. In that case — ” 

“Oh, no, no, not at all,’’ I interrupted 
eagerly. “You know there are a great 
many subjects that Tante never talks 
about. Probably she does not mention 
Paul because it makes her too sad; but I 
am over fourteen, and I think that is old 
enough to be told things. Please tell me, 
Suzanne. Was my cousin Paul very 
wicked?” 

“Wicked!” cried Suzanne, and she al- 
most sprang out of her chair in excite- 
ment, while two red spots appeared in her 
cheeks. “He was not wicked at all. What 
put such a dreadful idea into your head?” 

“I <ion’t know,” I said, “except that 
Tante never mentions his name, and there 
has always been such a mystery about him. 
If he was not wicked, why does no one 
ever talk about him?” 

“Because Madame forbade his name to 
be mentioned in the house eleven years 


30 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


ago,” said Suzanne. ^^She was very an- 
gry, poor lady, and it is no wonder, for she 
is so proud of her family; but wicked! 
Monsieur Paul wicked? No one shall ever 
say that to me.” 

am sorry I said it,” I apologized, 
‘‘but you see, Suzanne, I really did not 
know. ’ ’ 

“Ah, well, I suppose that is true,” said 
Suzanne, and she settled back in her chair 
again, with a long sigh. “It all happened 
before you came from America, and so you 
cannot remember him. Madame had all his 
photographs destroyed but one, and that 
I have kept safely hidden. If you had 
once looked into that dear, kind face, you 
could never have called our Monsieur Paul 
wicked. ’ ’ 

“Did you love him very much, Su- 
zanne?” I asked. I could not help going 
on with the subject now that I had begun. 

“Indeed I did,” she answered, and I 
saw that her eyes were full of tears. “I 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


31 


had a good reason, for he was only three 
years old when I came to be his nurse. I 
was but sixteen myself, but Madame took 
me straight from my father’s farm, and I 
have lived in the family ever since. I 
loved both the boys, but Monsieur Paul 
was always the favorite with every one. 
Ah, but he was a sweet child, and when he 
grew big and went to school, he never for- 
got his poor Suzanne. Many a present 
have I tucked away in my bureau drawers 
that Monsieur Paul brought me when he 
came home for his vacations. Droll, un- 
suitable things most of them were, but I 
would never part with a single one. He 
was the youngest, and the idol of his par- 
ents. When Monsieur died, it was to 
Monsieur Paul that Madame turned for 
comfort in her sorrow. He was only nine- 
teen, but seemed years older; he was so 
tall and manly. We were living in Paris 
then, and Monsieur Paul was studying at 
the Beaux Arts, He was crazy to be a 


32 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


painter, and no wonder, for if ever a boy 
had talent, he had. Madame was so proud 
of his pictures. There was scarcely a 
room in the house that did not have at least 
one of them framed and hanging on the 
wall. Monsieur Paul was the cleverest 
pupil in his class, they said. Monsieur 
used to laugh at Madame for being so 
proud of her son, but in his heart I think 
he was just as proud of Monsieur Paul 
himself.’’ 

‘‘But what did Paul do to make Tante so 
angry?” I asked impatiently, for I was 
afraid Suzanne was wandering away from 
the point of her story. 

“He married against his mother’s ex- 
press commands,” said Suzanne, solemnly. 

“Oh!” I gasped, and I actually felt a 
little frightened. I have never dared to 
think what would happen to any one who 
disobeyed Tante. I think I should almost 
die of fright if I were ever to do such a 
dreadful thing, and she were to find it out. 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


33 


Was his wife a dreadful person T’ I asked 
Suzanne, after a little pause. 

‘‘She was a person whose name has 
never been mentioned in this house,’’ said 
Suzanne, severely. 

“But who was she, Suzanne, and where 
did Paul meet her?” I persisted, for I was 
determined to find out all I could while 
Suzanne was in the mood for talking. 

Suzanne rose, and going to the door, 
opened it, and looked out into the passage, 
as if to make sure there was no one there 
to hear. Then she closed the door again, 
and coming back to her seat, said almost in 
a whisper. 

“She was a young woman who worked 
in a Paris flower shop.” 

Suzanne looked as if she expected me to 
be very much shocked, and I suppose I 
ought to have been, but somehow the news 
did not seem quite as dreadful as I had 
expected it would be. 

“Was she pretty?” I asked, for I re- 


34 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


membered that some of the girls in the 
Nice flower shops are very pretty. 

Suzanne threw up her hands in horror. 

‘^Heavens, Mademoiselle Victorine!^’ 
she cried indignantly, ‘‘how could I know? 
I never saw her, and I never wish to see 
her. She broke our dear Madame ’s heart, 
and that is quite enough for me to know 
about such a person.’’ 

“Did Tante ever see her?” I asked. 

“No indeed! Monsieur Paul came to 
tell his mother of his intended marriage, 
and Madame ordered him to leave the 
house.” 

“But if Tante never saw Paul’s wife, 
how did she know she was so dreadful?” 
I wonder now how I dared ask so many 
questions, but I was so interested that it 
seemed as if I could not stop. 

“She did not need to know anything 
more,” said Suzanne. “It was quite 
enough for her to know that Monsieur 
Paul, whose grandfather was a marquis. 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


35 


and whose great-nncle was a friend of 
King Louis Phillippe, should have made 
such a terrible mesallimce. Madame has 
never held up her poor head since. The 
blow nearly killed her. ’ ’ 

‘‘And has she never seen Paul since P’ 
I asked. 

“Never ! It is eleven years to-day since 
Monsieur Paul left his mother’s house, 
and Madame has never heard one word 
from him since. That is the sorrow that 
is crushing her almost to death.” 

“And do you think she still loves him, 
and would be glad to see him if he came 
back?” I asked eagerly. 

“I think,” said Suzanne, solemnly, “that 
if Madame does not hear from Monsieur 
Paul before long she will die. She cannot 
bear this terrible longing any more; it 
drives her mad.” 

Suddenly Suzanne put up her apron be- 
fore her face, and began to cry. I was 
dreadfully sorry, and I threw my arms 


36 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


round her neck, and cried a little myself 
from sympathy. In a few minutes Su- 
zanne dried her eyes, and went on talking 
about Paul. It would take too long to 
write down all she said, even if I could re- 
member it, which I cannot, but it was very 
interesting, and has made me very anxious 
to see this mysterious cousin myself. She 
went to her room, and brought the photo- 
graph to show me. Paul must have been 
a very handsome boy, and he has such a 
nice, kind face. I am not surprised that 
Tante was proud of him. What a pity he 
could not have married some nice girl, in- 
stead of making a mesalliance, as Suzanne 
calls it. I wonder why people do not try 
to please their families when they marry. 
Tante was not pleased with my mother’s 
marriage, because my father was an Amer- 
ican, but it was not a mesalliance like 
Paul’s. Poor Tante, I am so sorry for her ! 
I wish I dared go to her and put my 
arms round her neck, as I did round Su- 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


37 


zanne’s just now, and tell her how sorry 
I am, but of course no one would take such 
a liberty with Tante. I must try to be 
more diligent when the new English gov- 
erness comes, and work harder over my 
English, even if it is hard. Then per- 
haps she will know that I am trying to 
please her, though she will never suspect 
why, for I have promised Suzanne not to 
mention PauPs name to her. Indeed, 
there was no need to promise, for I should 
not dare to take such a liberty under any 
circumstances. 

Heavens ! there is the clock striking 
eleven, and I am always supposed to be in 
bed before ten. If I really want to please 
Tante, I had better begin by going straight 
to bed now, and not writing another word 
in my book to-night. 


June Third. 

I am so excited that I can scarcely hold 
the pen, and my hand shakes so that I am 


38 


VICTOBINE^S BOOK 


sure my writing will be a disgrace, but I 
cannot go to bed without writing down the 
wonderful news that Tante has just told 
me. We are going, she and I — ^but I for- 
get ; that is not the way to write things in 
a book. 

I must go back to the beginning, and tell 
it like a story, and perhaps by the time I 
have finished, my heart will have stopped 
beating quite so fast and I shall be able to 
sleep. If I went to bed now, I am sure I 
should only lie awake for hours. 

Well, then, to go back to this morning, 
and my visit to the Delacourts \ The day 
began precisely like other days. I woke 
rather early, and was thinking about 
Tante and my cousin Paul, when Suzanne 
brought me my chocolate. After I was 
dressed I went out into the garden for a 
little exercise, but it was a very hot morn- 
ing, and I soon came in again, and studied 
my English grammar. Tante came into 
the school-room while I was studying, look- 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


39 


ing just as she always does, and I began 
to wonder if what happened last night 
were really true, and not just a dream. 
She told me the carriage would call for 
me at half-past eleven, and that Suzanne 
would drive to the Delacourts’ with me, 
and come for me again in the afternoon. 
I saw her glance at my grammar, hut she 
made no remark about it, and went away 
again, after telling me to give her compli- 
ments to Madame Delacourt. 

At half-past eleven the carriage was at 
the door, and Suzanne and I started for 
the Delacourts’. It was frightfully hot, 
and the streets looked quite deserted as 
we drove through them, but when we be- 
gan to climb the Cimiez there was more 
air, and by the time we reached the Dela- 
courts ^ villa which is on the very top of the 
hill, there was quite a pleasant breeze. 

Eose and Blanche were watching for the 
carriage, and came running out to meet 
me. They took me to their room, and we 


40 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


remained there chatting together until the 
maid announced dejeuner. Monsieur Del- 
acourt has gone to Paris on business, but 
Madame was in the salle-d-manger, and 
she received me very kindly. If only 
Tante were more like Madame Delacourt 
how happy I should be! It is delightful 
to have dejeuner with the Delacourts, for 
Eose and Blanche are not in the least 
afraid of their mother, and they all chat 
together so pleasantly. At home I rarely 
speak at table, but at the Delacourts ’ I am 
sometimes quite shocked to find myself 
talking and laughing just as if there were 
no grown up people present. To-day we 
talked about my book, and they all seemed 
interested. It began by Blanche asking 
me how I had enjoyed Colette,’^ and I 
told her how much I had liked the story, 
and how it had given me the idea of trying 
to write a book myself. Blanche said she 
was sure she would never have the pa- 
tience to write things down, but Eose said 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


41 


she had kept a diary for a year, in which 
she wrote all her thoughts and aspirations. 
I told them I was afraid I should never 
have any interesting thoughts or aspira- 
tions, but that I loved writing, and that 
the only thing that troubled me was the 
fear that I should never have anything to 
write about. 

‘‘Because you know nothing ever hap- 
pens to me,’’ I added. 

“That does not mean that nothing ever 
will happen to you,” said Madame, smil- 
ing, and I thought the girls glanced at 
each other as if they were amused at 
something, but had no idea what it could 
be. 

After dejeuner we went out into the gar- 
den to play tennis, but the sun was so hot 
Rose was afraid of having a headache, so 
we gave it up, and went to sit on the ter- 
race instead. 

“I detest Nice in summer,” grumbled 
Blanche, wiping her hot forehead. 


42 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


‘ ‘ Thank goodness we are going to Switzer- 
land in two weeks! It would kill me to 
stay here all through the hot weather/’ 
‘‘Oh, no, it wouldn’t,” I assured her, 
laughing, “I have spent ten whole sum- 
mers in Nice, and you see I am still alive.” 

“Perhaps you don’t feel the heat as 
much as we do,” said Rose, “but you 
would like a change, would you not?” 

“Like it!” I cried, “I should think so. 
But what is the use of thinking about it 
when I know Tante hates traveling, and 
will never go away anywhere?” 

Neither of them said anything, but I saw 
them look at each other again in the same 
way they did at the dejeuner, and they 
both smiled. They talked a great deal 
about Switzerland, particularly about the 
Engadine, where they are going to spend 
July and August, and I tried very hard not 
to feel envious. Then Rose proposed 
reading aloud, and we read “L’Abbe 
Constantine,^^ each reading a chapter in 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 43 

turn while the others crocheted. It is an 
interesting story, hut not as interesting as 
‘^Colette,’’ and I am afraid my attention 
sometimes wandered while the others were 
reading. I did not mean to be inatten- 
tive, but I could not help thinking about 
the Engadine, and the great snow moun- 
tains, of which I have often seen pictures. 

After a while Madame Delacourt came 
out on the terrace, and we had our after- 
noon chocolate. Madame gave me a note 
for Tante, telling me to be sure not to for- 
get to deliver it as soon as I reach home. 
She seemed so particular about it that I 
felt sure it must be very important, and I 
promised that I would not forget. 

‘‘You will be sorry if you do forget,’^ 
said Blanche, and there was a mischievous 
twinkle in her eye. “I think I know what 
is in that note, and it is something very 
interesting. I am right, am I not, mam- 
mar’ 

Madame Delacourt shook her head at 


44 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


Blanche, and said, Don’t talk nonsense, 
my dear,” but she smiled very kindly at 
the same time, and I began to feel a good 
deal of curiosity about the note myself. 

I gave it to Tante the moment I reached 
home. I found her in the salon, and she 
was very kind, and said she hoped I had 
enjoyed my day. I would have liked to 
see her reading Madame Delacourt’s note, 
but she did not seem in any hurry to open 
it, and in a few minutes she sent me up- 
stairs to prepare for dinner. 

I hoped Tante would mention the note 
at dinner, but she did not, and I was afraid 
to ask her about it. She always tells me 
the things she wishes me to know, and 
there is never any use in asking her about 
others. She is sure to say ^^If I had 
wished you to know I would have told you, ’ ’ 
or else, “Little girls should not ask ques- 
tions,” which is still worse; it always 
makes me feel hot and uncomfortable all 


over. 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 45 

After dinner we went into the salon as 
usual, but Tante did not read the news- 
paper. She sat on the sofa, with her 
hands folded in her lap, and gazed up at 
the ceiling, as if she were very much ab- 
sorbed in thinking about something. I 
asked if I should play for her, and she said 
^‘yes,’’ though in a rather absent way, as 
if she were thinking of something else. I 
went to the piano, and began to play, but 
when I had finished one piece she told me 
to come and sit beside her on the sofa, as 
she had something to say to me. 

I obeyed, my heart beating rather fast, 
for when Tante says she has something 
to say to me it generally means a lecture, 
and I at once began wondering what I 
could have done that was wrong. The 
only thing I could think of was having 
listened outside her door last night when 
she was crying, and I felt almost sure Su- 
zanne had not mentioned that. I went 
and sat beside her on the sofa, and she 


46 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


patted my hand kindly. That gave me 
courage, but when I looked in her face I 
began to be nervous again, it was so very 
stern and serious. 

It was a few moments before Tante 
spoke, but when she did her first words 
were so surprising that I quite forgot to 
be frightened. 

^‘Victorine,’’ she said, ‘‘did Madame 
Delacourt tell you what she had written 
to me in the note you brought home this 
afternoon r’ 

“No, Tante,’’ I answered, “she did not 
tell me what she had written, but she told 
me to be sure to give you the note, and I 
think the girls knew what it was about, for 
Blanche laughed, and said I should be 
sorry if I forgot. ’ ’ 

Tante smiled a little, though she still 
looked very serious. 

“It was discreet on Madame Delacourt ’s 
part not to tell you until she knew whether 
I would give my consent to her kind offer,” 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


47 


she said, approvingly. ‘^But there is no 
reason why you should not be told now. 
Madame Delacourt has offered to take you 
to the Engadine this summer with her 
own family.’^ 

^^Tante!’’ I gasped, and nearly jumped 
off the sofa in my excitement, but Tante 
laid her cool hand on my shoulder. 

‘^Don^t jump about like a wild thing,’' 
she said, quietly; ‘‘there is nothing to be 
excited over.” 

I subsided into my corner again, feeling 
somewhat ashamed. Of course Tante 
would not let me go. 

“It is very kind of Madame Delacourt 
to be willing to burden herself with the 
care of another young girl,” Tante went 
on, “and I shall write and thank her to- 
morrow. I shall also tell her that I have 
a very good reason for declining her kind 
invitation, as I have already made other 
plans for the summer.” 

“Other plans,” I repeated, stupidly. 


48 VICTOEINE'S BOOK 

^‘You mean that we are to stay at home 
as usual, I suppose.” 

do not mean anything of the kind,” 
said Tante a little sharply. have been 
thinking for some time of taking a jour- 
ney this summer, and to-day I have defi- 
nitely made up my mind. Our good pas- 
tor, Monsieur Laroque, has been to see me 
this afternoon, and he has convinced me 
that it is my duty to make this sacrifice. 
I have never yet shrunk from my duty, 
no matter how painful it may have 
been.” 

‘‘Where are you going, Tante?” I 
asked, timidly. I was dying with curios- 
ity, but was afraid to let Tante see it. 

“I am going to take you to America to 
visit your father,” she said, quite as 
calmly as she might have said, “I am go- 
ing to take you over to Menton for a few 
days.” 

I was simply speechless. I think my 
eyes and mouth must both have opened 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 49 

wide in my astonishment, for Tante said 
quite sharply; 

^^For Heaven’s sake, child, don’t look 
like an idiot! Is there anything so ex- 
traordinary in the fact of your going to 
visit your own father?” 

‘^But — but you have always said Amer- 
ica was such a dreadful country,” I stam- 
mered. never dreamed you would take 
me there.” 

^^Well, I have no doubt that it is a most 
unpleasant country,” said Tante, ‘‘and I 
have always disliked the idea of going 
there. I dislike it as much as ever, and 
nothing but the strictest sense of duty 
would force me to take the journey.” 

My heart was throbbing so that I could 
scarcely breathe, but I made a great ef- 
fort to appear calm. Tante is always calm 
herself, and she dislikes very much to have 
other people show they are excited. 

“Does — does my father want to see 
me?” I asked almost in a whisper. 


50 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


I saw the corners of Tante’s month go 
down in the way they always do when she 
is displeased, and her voice was very sol- 
emn when she answered. 

presume from the tone of his letters 
that he is very anxious to see you. He 
has been trying to persuade me to let you 
visit him for the past two years.’’ 

Then I gathered all my courage to- 
gether, and asked the question I have been 
longing to ask for years. 

‘‘Why does my father never come to see 
us as he used to do ? ” I asked, and as soon 
as I had said the words I was dreadfully 
frightened, for Tante looked more dis- 
pleased than ever. 

“He doubtless has his reasons,” she 
said, shortly, and then we were both silent, 
for of course I could not ask any more 
questions after that. After a short si- 
lence Tante went on. 

“You are fourteen,” she said, “and I 
suppose you cannot any longer be consid- 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


51 


ered altogether a child. Monsieur Ba- 
roque, before whom I laid my difficulty, 
has proved to me that it is my duty to take 
you to America. I will not hesitate to tell 
you that it is a very painful duty, hut I am 
prepared to do it.^’ 

Tante looked, when she said that, just as 
I think that Huguenot ancestor must have 
looked when he was on his way to he 
burned at the stake. I am always a little 
afraid of Tante, hut when she begins talk- 
ing about duty I positively tremble. 

‘^When your dear mother died,’^ she 
went on, ^‘your father wrote asking me if 
I would take care of you and bring you up 
as I had brought up your mother. He was 
young and alone in the world, and it was 
quite natural that he should find a child 
of four years old a great burden. I told 
him that I would undertake the care of 
you on one condition, and that was that I 
should have entire control over you for at 
least ten years. I would not submit to 


52 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


interference of any kind in your training 
or education. He might come to see you 
from time to time if he chose, but you were 
to be my child for the next ten years.’’ 

‘^Did my father consent?” I asked, anx- 
iously. It made me sad to think that my 
father should have been willing to give me 
up to any one, even Tante. I am sure 
Monsieur Delacourt would never consent 
to give up Eose or Blanche for ten whole 
years. 

‘Hn the end he did,” said Tante. ‘‘At 
first he wanted to argue and make condi- 
tions, but I was firm, as I always am, and 
at last he saw that I was right. I will say 
in justice to your father, that he has be- 
haved in the matter as an honorable man 
should. But the ten years are up this 
summer and he has written requesting me 
most urgently to allow you to come to 
America.” 

“But you won’t let me go without you?” 
I cried in dismay. The very thought of 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


53 


going to that strange, far-away country 
without Tante was too awful to contem- 
plate. 

Certainly not,’’ said Tante. ‘‘I 
should never think of allowing you to go 
anjrwhere without me. That is why I have 
decided to make this great sacrifice. ’ ’ 

I looked at Tante in a kind of fascinated 
awe. 

“It is very, very good of you to make 
such a sacrifice for me,” I said humbly, 
“but do you really think you will have to 
do it? Perhaps if you write my father 
how much you dislike going to America, he 
will come over here to see me, as he used 
to do when I was little. ’ ’ 

“Your father will never come here 
again,” said Tante. “We quarreled on 
his last visit, and I forbade him to enter 
my house. No, child, my mind is made up ; 
you shall be taken to America. Your 
father only speaks of a visit, so we will 
hope that it may not be for very long. If 


54 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


the journey kills me, I shall at least die 
with the consciousness of having done my 
duty/^ 

‘^But you won’t die, Tante!” I cried in 
horror. ‘‘That would be too terrible. 
Indeed, indeed I would rather you did not 
make such a great sacrifice for me. I will 
write to my father myself, and beg him 
not to make us come to America. I don’t 
believe he could be so cruel if he knew how 
you feel about it. I will even go alone or 
with some one else if he insists, though it 
would almost break my heart to leave you. 
But I can’t let you go if you think it is go- 
ing to kill you.” All at once I began to 
cry. 

“There, there, child, don’t be a little 
fool,” said Tante, impatiently, but though 
her voice sounded cross, her face looked 
softer and kinder. “I daresay I shall 
survive the journey, as others have done 
before me. At any rate, I am resolved to 
take it, and there is nothing more to be 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


55 


said. Now dry your eyes, and kiss me 
good-night. It is already after nine.’’ 

I obeyed Tante, as I always do, but 
when I had dried my eyes, and given her 
my usual good-night kiss, I longed to 
throw my arms round her neck, and to tell 
her how much I admired her for being so 
brave. I think I should have done it if 
she had not looked quite so stern. As it 
was, I just said, ^‘Good-night, dear Tante, 
I hope you will rest well,” and went 
quietly out of the room. But as to going 
to bed, that is really impossible just yet. 
I am so wide-awake and excited that I am 
sure I shall not close my eyes to-night. 

I, Victorine Maitland, who have never 
been even to Paris since I can remember, 
am going to cross the Atlantic Ocean, to 
visit my father in America! I have to 
write the words down in order to make 
them seem in the least real, and even now 
that they are written, I still feel as if I 
must be dreaming. I know I ought to be 


56 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


very unhappy when I think of the sacri- 
fice Tante is making for me, but somehow 
I never felt happier in my life. It will all 
be very strange and uncomfortable no 
doubt, and perhaps my father will not be 
at all agreeable, but Tante will be with 
me, and it will be a change — oh, it will 
really be a change at last ! 

Paeis, June Fifteenth. 

Tante has gone to see her lawyer, leav- 
ing Suzanne and me alone at the hotel, to 
look after the luggage till she comes back. 
Suzanne says it is a great responsibility to 
be left in charge of all the luggage, Tante ’s 
two trunks, and mine, and her own, to say 
nothing of all the bags and shawl-straps. 

She says Paris is full of thieves, and it 
is not safe to trust any one we do not 
know, but I hope she is mistaken, for I 
should not like to think all these polite 
people at the hotel were thieves. The 
chambermaid is such a pretty girl, and the 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


57 


waiter who served our dejeuner has such 
perfect manners. I comfort myself by 
remembering that Suzanne is not accus- 
tomed to hotels, and has never been to 
Paris before. 

It is so interesting to watch the crowds 
of people in the street, that I keep run- 
ning to the window to look out every few 
minutes. Tante has promised to take me 
to the Louvre to see some of the great 
pictures this afternoon, if she gets through 
the business with her lawyer before the 
gallery closes. I wish we were going to 
stay in Paris longer, it is all so gay and 
beautiful, but we leave early to-morrow 
morning for Cherbourg, where we are to 
take the steamer for New York. When I 
think that one week from to-morrow we 
shall actually be in America, I feel hot and 
cold all over. Oh, how I do hope my 
father will like me, but I don’t think Tante 
feels at all sure about it. She seldom 
speaks of him, and when she does mention 


58 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


his name her face always grows hard and 
solemn. I wish I Imew what they quar- 
reled about, and why Tante forbade him 
her house. 

I have neglected my book very much 
lately, but ever since the night Tante told 
me the wonderful news about going to 
America I have been living in a whirl of 
excitement. In the first place there were 
my new clothes. I do love pretty dresses, 
even though Tante says it is worldly to 
care about clothes, and I have never had 
many, because she approves of little girls 
dressing very simply. But the day after 
I heard about going to America, Tante 
sent for the dressmaker, and ordered two 
lovely new dresses for me. Then she 
took me out in the carriage, and we went 
shopping on the Avenue Be La Gare. She 
bought me a lovely hat, two pairs of kid 
boots, and a number of other things, and I 
donT think I was ever quite so happy be- 
fore in my life. 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


59 


Then there were the English lessons; 
they were not so entertaining as the shop- 
ping and dressmaking. Tante seemed to 
be suddenly very anxious about my Eng- 
lish. She does not know a word of Eng- 
lish herself, but she made me read ‘‘The 
Vicar of Wakefield’’ aloud to her, and be- 
fore I had read two pages, she declared 
she was sure there was something wrong 
with my accent, and she was afraid Miss 
Merton had neglected my education. I 
told her I did not believe it would make 
any difference, as my father spoke French, 
and probably all Americans did, too, but 
she seemed so worried that at last I began 
to worry too, and spent every moment I 
could spare studying the English gram- 
mar. It ended in Tante ’s engaging the 
Eeverend Mr. Black to come for two hours 
every afternoon to talk English with me. 
The Eeverend Mr. Black has charge of 
one of the English chapels in Nice, and he 
told me he was a curate at home. He is 


60 


yiCTOEINE’S BOOK 


quite old and a little deaf. He read to 
me from the English newspapers, but it 
was not nearly as interesting as it used 
to be when Miss Merton read, for she al- 
ways chose the accounts of accidents and 
about the dinners and balls that were go- 
ing on in London, while he read long po- 
litical articles, with a great many words in 
them that I did not understand. Of 
course I had to be polite, and pretend to 
be interested, but half the time I really 
didn’t know what he was reading about. 
Then he asked me to read to him, and I 
read several chapters from ‘‘The Vicar 
of Wakefield,” but he hardly ever cor- 
rected my pronunciation, as Miss Merton 
always did, and once when I looked up 
suddenly, I saw that his eyes were closed, 
and he looked as if he were asleep. But 
he was always kind, and I am sorry for 
him, because his wife died last year, and 
he is all alone in the world. 

Tante wanted to sail on La Bretagne, 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


61 


because Monsieur Laroque knows the cap- 
tain, and says it is a very steady ship, so 
as La Bretagne sails to-morrow, we were 
a good deal hurried, and there was not 
time for many English lessons. However, 
the Eeverend Mr. Black seemed quite sat- 
isfied, and told Tante I spoke English very 
well for a little French girl. He smiled 
when he said it, but Tante did not look at 
all pleased, and said she was afraid my 
father would be angry if I did not speak 
English well, as that was the one part of 
my education about which he had been 
very particular. I hope he will not be 
angry, I am sure, and I really don’t see 
how he can be when I remember what very 
odd French he used to speak himself. 

The Delacourts came over to say good- 
bye, and they were so much interested in 
my going to America. They were sorry 
I could not go to the Engadine, but 
Blanche said she was sure America would 
be much more exciting, and I would prob- 


62 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


ably have some thrilling adventures to 
write about in my book. They do not ap- 
pear to think America as uncomfortable a 
place as Tante does. There were two 
American girls at the convent last win- 
ter, and Blanche says they were great 
favorites. They invited the Delacourts 
to visit them if they ever came to Chicago, 
and from what they said about it, Chicago 
must be quite a gay place, and very com- 
fortable indeed. Blanche says they told 
her they often went to the theatre and to 
the opera at home, and that there was a 
telephone in every room in their house. 

We left Nice yesterday afternoon by 
the train de luxe, and reached here this 
morning in time for dejeuner, Tante has 
dismissed all the servants but Suzanne — 
who goes with us — and Madame Eemo, the 
woman who does our washing, and is very 
good and trustworthy, is to take charge of 
the villa until we come back. It seemed 
very strange to say good-bye to every one. 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


63 


and see the rooms being closed one after 
another. I suppose I ought to have felt 
very sad at leaving my home — Tante said 
she did — but somehow I could not. We 
shall be back again before long, and in the 
meantime — oh, I hope I am not heartless, 
but I have so longed for a change ! 

The journey in the train was quite ex- 
citing. Tante and I had a cunning little 
stateroom to ourselves, and Suzanne 
shared the one next to us with another 
woman. Tante says she did not close her 
eyes all night, but I was asleep almost as 
soon as I had climbed into the berth over 
her head, and did not wake once till she 
called me at seven this morning. Poor 
Suzanne did not sleep much either. She 
has never spent a night on a train before, 
and was so afraid of accidents that she 
would not even imdress, but sat up in her 
berth all night, holding her bag. She was 
afraid some one might steal it if she let 
herself fall asleep. They are both rather 


64 


yiCTORINE^S BOOK 


tired and cross to-day, but I am not in the 
least tired, and, oh, I do wish Tante wonld 
hurry back from that tiresome lawyer’s, 
and take me out to see things ! 

On Boaed La Bretagne, 
June Nineteenth. 

It is a glorious day, and I am writing 
on deck, in my steamer chair, and using 
for the first time, the nice new fountain 
pen Rose gave me as a parting gift. She 
said she was sure I should find it useful 
if I wanted to write on ship-board. There 
is nothing to be seen but sea and sky, and 
it is all wonderful and beautiful. The air 
is so fresh and exhilarating that I wish I 
could walk for hours, as I have seen some 
American girls on board doing, but it 
makes Suzanne giddy to walk on ship, and 
she does not think it proper to let me go 
by myself. I do not see why it should not 
be proper, but I suppose Suzanne knows 
more about such things than I do. I wish 





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VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


65 


I knew those American girls who walk so 
much, they have such pleasant faces, hut I 
don’t suppose Suzanne would consider it 
proper for me to speak to them. As for 
poor Tante, she has not left her cabin since 
the night we sailed. She has suffered 
very much, and seemed so ill the first day 
that I was quite frightened, and Suzanne 
called in the ship’s doctor. He only 
smiled, however, and assured us it was 
nothing more serious than seasickness, and 
that Tante would be quite herself again in 
a few days. Dear Tante is very brave. I 
know she must have suffered a great deal, 
but she never utters a word of complaint. 
She just lay still, with her eyes shut, look- 
ing, Suzanne said, like a noble, suffering 
martyr. We did all we could for her, but 
she did not seem to like being disturbed, 
and at last told us quite sharply to go 
away and leave her alone. The doctor 
says seasick people are often like that, and 
that there is nothing to worry about. 


66 VICTORINE’S BOOK 

Neither Suzanne nor I have been at all 
seasick. I never felt so hungry before in 
my life, and the food is so good that 
Suzanne says she is quite ashamed of me, 
I make such a pig of myself at meals. I 
think most people who are not seasick must 
make pigs of themselves on ship-board, 
for I have watched those American girls 
— who sit opposite to us at table — and I 
am sure they eat as much as I do. 

Most of the people on board are French, 
as this is a French steamer, but there are 
some Americans on board as well, as I am 
much relieved to find that I can under- 
stand almost everything they say. I wish 
I knew some of them, so that I could prac- 
tise my English, but I have been saying 
English phrases over and over to myself 
all day. It would really be terrible if my 
father were angry because I did not speak 
his language properly. I wish the thought 
of meeting him did not make me so nerv- 
ous. I ought to be very happy at the 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


67 


thought of seeing my father again, but 
after all it is six years since I saw him 
last, and then I was only a little girl. Lit- 
tle girls of eight cannot possibly form cor- 
rect ideas of people, and Tante does not 
like him. 

I wish we could have stayed longer in 
Paris, it was so beautiful. Tante did get 
back from her lawyer ^s in time to take me 
to the Louvre that afternoon, and, oh, it 
was such a wonderful place! I should 
have liked to stay there for a week at least. 
I have seen those beautiful pictures in my 
dreams every night since, and as for the 
Venus de Milo — ^well, there are no words 
to describe that. 


June Twentieth. 

I had to stop writing yesterday, because 
Suzanne thought it was getting chilly, and 
that we had better go down to our cabin. 
I found Tante reading in her berth, but 
when I asked how she felt, she just pressed 


68 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


her hand to her forehead and sighed, I 
offered to read to her, and she said I 
might, so I read aloud for the rest of the 
afternoon. The book was an ^^Histoire 
d^Amerique/^ which Tante bought when we 
were in Paris. It was very interesting, 
but judging from the accounts of the 
dreadful times the early settlers had with 
the wild red Indians, America must have 
been a very strange, savage country. 
Some of the early settlers were called 
Puritans, and they were very religious, 
even more strict than the Huguenots. 
They never did anything but go to church 
on Sunday, and their services were so long 
that they lasted nearly all day. I hope my 
father is not as strict as all that, but the 
book says only a small portion of America 
was inhabited by the Puritans, so perhaps 
he does not belong to that sect. I do hope 
all those fierce Indians have been killed 
by this time, though somehow it does not 
seem quite fair that they should be killed. 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


69 


for they owned the whole land until the 
white men came and took it away from 
them. 

To-day is Sunday, and it is so calm that 
Tante has come on deck, and has a little 
color in her cheeks again. She has met 
some people she knows, a Monsieur and 
Madame Lorant, who are on the way to 
Montreal, to visit a married daughter. 
They are not very interesting, being rather 
elderly, but Tante seems to enjoy talking 
to them. I wonder if we shall go to Mont- 
real, too. Some cousins of Uncle Victor ^s 
live there, and I heard Tante tell Madame 
Lorant that they had invited her to visit 
them if she ever came to America. Tante 
said I might walk a little by myself this 
morning, but she would not let me go out 
of her sight, and it was so stupid having 
to turn so often, that I soon grew tired of it, 
and went back to my steamer chair. I 
asked Tante if I might speak to those 
American girls, but she said: “Certainly 


70 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


not ; we know nothing whatever about 
them.’’ They have looked at me several 
times, and they smile so pleasantly, that I 
am sure they would like to speak, but I 
suppose they are afraid of Tante and 
Suzanne, who are always close beside 
me. 

We are due in New York on Wednesday. 
Only three more days, and then — oh, I 
wish it did not make me so nervous to 
think about it I 


June Twenty-second. 

This is our last day on ship-board. The 
captain says we ought to land in New 
York some time to-morrow afternoon. It 
is all very exciting, and yet I cannot help 
wishing it were not going to be quite so 
soon. I have heard something which has 
made me so uncomfortable that I almost 
wish we had stayed at home all summer 
rather than come to America. I know the 
reason now why my father has not been 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 71 

to see me for six years, and why he and 
Tante quarreled. 

It was last evening that Tante told me 
about it, and for the first time in my life I 
was too excited to sleep, and lay awake 
until after midnight. There was a con- 
cert in the saloon, and I was very anxious 
to go, but Tante would not let me. So as 
soon as Suzanne and I had finished our 
dinner, I went hack to our cabin, where I 
found Tante already in bed. She never 
goes to the dining-saloon, but has all her 
meals served in her cabin. She says the 
heat and the smell of the food make her ill. 
She was reading, but as soon as I came in 
she put down her book, and told me to 
come and sit beside her. I offered to read 
aloud, but she said she had read enough 
for one day, and there was something she 
wished to talk to me about. So I drew 
my chair close to the berth, and she began 
at once by saying that she supposed I must 
have wondered why it was that my father 


72 


yiCTOEINE’S BOOK 


never came to visit us any more. I 
wanted to say that of course I had won- 
dered, especially since she had told me 
they had quarreled, but did not quite dare, 
so I just said meekly — 

^^Yes, Tante.’^ 

^‘It is six years since your father has 
been to Nice,’^ Tante went on. ‘‘At the 
time of his last visit he and I had a serious 
disagreement, and we have never met 
since. ^ ^ 

I said, “Yes, Tante,’’ again, and that 
was all, but I was very much interested, 
as I am sure she must have seen by my 
face. 

“I have never mentioned this painful 
subject to you,” she said, “because at first 
you were much too young, and besides, I 
am not fond of dwelling upon unpleasant 
things. Now, however, it is impossible to 
keep silent any longer, as you will prob- 
ably meet your father and his wife within 
the next forty-eight hours.” 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


73 


‘‘His — his wifel’^ I gasped; “has my 
father a wifeT’ 

“He has/’ said Tante, solemnly. “He 
has been married for more than five 
years.” 

I was too astonished and too horrified 
to ask another question, but I felt my 
cheeks getting hot and my hands getting 
cold. After waiting a moment Tante 
went on. 

“It was on your father’s last visit to 
Nice that he told me of his approaching 
marriage to a young American lady. I 
was naturally very much shocked at such 
conduct on his part, and did not hesitate 
to express my feelings. He took otfense 
at some things I said, and the consequence 
was we quarreled, and I requested him to 
leave my house.” 

I remembered what Suzanne had told me 
about my cousin Paul’s marriage, and 
wondered if perhaps my father’s wife had 
also worked in a shop. I saw Tante ex- 


74 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


pected me to speak, so I pulled myself to- 
gether, and stammered out — 

‘‘Was she — was the lady my father mar- 
ried — a very dreadful person T’ 

“I know nothing about what sort of 
person she was,^’ said Tante, impatiently, 
“and what is more, I do not care. If she 
had been a duchess the fact of your fath- 
er’s marrying her would have been just as 
great an insult to the memory of your dear 
mother. ’ ’ 

“But — but people do marry a second 
time, don’t they?” I faltered. “The Del- 
acourts’ uncle has had three wives.” 

“I am sorry to say they do,” said Tante, 
with a deep sigh, “but because an evil ex- 
ists does not make it any less painful. 
People who can forget the dear ones they 
have lost have but little heart. Your 
mother adored her husband, and he ap- 
peared to be devoted to her, and yet in 
four years after her death he had forgot- 
ten her, and was ready to marry another 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 75 

woman. I consider such conduct little 
short of disgraceful.’’ 

^‘The Delacourts’ uncle married his 
third wife in less than two years after the 
second one died,” I said, feeling that I 
ought to say something in justification of 
my father, although I was, of course, 
dreadfully shocked. But Tante cut me 
short very sharply. 

‘‘Do not repeat such stories, Victorine,” 
she said. “I am sure I do not know where 
you hear them. They are not fit for the 
ears of a child.” 

“Blanche told me,” I said, meekly. “I 
didn’t know it was wrong to repeat it, but 
I won’t do it again.” 

“That is right. It is vulgar to talk of 
such thiogs, and I am surprised that Ma- 
dame Delacourt does not forbid such con- 
versation among her children. What I 
wish you to remember is, that in marrying 
a second time, your father has insulted 
your mother’s sacred memory.” 


76 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


‘‘Yes, Tante/’ 

“You will of course treat your step- 
mother with every mark of outward re- 
spect,’’ continued Tante, “but you must 
never for one moment allow yourself to 
forget that she had usurped your mother’s 
place. ’ ’ 

“Do you mean that I am not to love my 
stepmother?” I asked. 

“Love her!” cried Tante, and her eyes 
flashed as they only do when she is very 
angry, “love the woman who has driven 
the image of your blessed mother from 
your father’s heart! Certainly not. 
What are you thinking of to ask such a 
question, child?” 

I really do not know just what I did 
mean, and I was dreadfully ashamed to 
have Tante think even for a moment, that 
I could ever be disloyal to my dear moth- 
er’s memory. I hung my head, and I am 
sure my cheeks were crimson. 

“When your father told me of his in- 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


77 


tended marriage/’ Tante went on, 
also tried to persuade me to release him 
from the promise he had made to leave 
yon entirely to my care for ten years. He 
wanted to take yon hack to America with 
him, bnt to that proposition I would not 
listen for a moment. What could a child 
of eight years old understand of the sa- 
credness of love! If I had given you up 
then, and allowed your father to take you 
to America with him, in six months you 
would have forgotten me, and the memory 
of your dear mother would have been noth- 
ing to you. Now you are old enough to 
understand, and the ten years are up. I 
have no longer the right to refuse your 
father’s demands.” 

will never forget my mother,” I said, 
earnestly, ^‘and of course I shall always 
love you better than any one else in the 
world, but — ^but I should like to be able to 
love my father, too.” 

I do not think Tante quite liked my say- 


78 


VTCTORINE^S BOOK 


ing that, for I saw her frown and bite her 
lips, but she is always just, and after a mo- 
ment’s silence, she said quietly: 

‘‘Of course it is proper that you should 
love and respect your father. All I ask 
of you is to remember that his wife has 
usurped your mother’s place. Now I do 
not wish to discuss this painful subject 
any longer. I have expressed my wishes, 
and shall expect you to be guided by them. 
If you would like more fresh air, you may 
ask Suzanne to take you on deck for a little 
while before bed-time.” 

I did as Tante suggested, but I was so 
quiet all the rest of the evening that Su- 
zanne asked me if I felt seasick. I as- 
sured her I was quite well, but I had so 
much to think about that I did not feel like 
talking. At last, just before we went be- 
low, I persuaded Suzanne to take a few 
turns up and down the deck, and while we 
were walking I asked her if she had ever 
heard that my father had married again. 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


79 


She gave a little scream, and seemed so 
horrified that I was ashamed of having 
mentioned the subject to her. I am 
afraid she feels just as Tante does about 
second marriages, and, oh, how I do wish 
my father had not done it ! There is one 
thing that I cannot help being glad about, 
though, uncomfortable as Tante ’s news 
has made me, and that is that my father 
really wanted to take me to America to 
live with him. I used to fear sometimes 
that perhaps the reason he had stopped 
comiQg to visit us was because he was 
tired of me, and did not really care about 
me, but he must have cared if he wanted 
me to live with him in America, and that 
is a great comfort, in spite of everythmg. 
But it is very dreadful about his marrying 
again. I do really not like the idea of a 
stepmother at all. I have never known 
any one who had a stepmother, but I 
have often read of them in books, and 
they are almost always disagreeable. I 


80 VICTOEINE^S BOOK 

am so thankful Tante is with me. How 
good it was of her not to send me to Amer- 
ica without her. Oh, I do love and honor 
Tante very much! I pray the good God 
every day to help me to grow up to he half 
as good as she is, but I am quite sure I 
never can be. 

Tante has not said another word on 
that painful subject since last night, and 
she seems just as usual to-day, except that 
she is a little pale, and her mouth looks 
very stern. I have only mentioned my 
father once, and that was to ask if she 
thought he would be at the dock in New 
York to meet us. I have heard several 
people on board say they expected friends 
to meet them, so I was rather surprised 
to have Tante reply decidedly, ‘‘Certainly 
not.^^ 

“Doesn’t he know we are on this ship?” 
I asked, wondering why Tante looked so 
much annoyed by my question. 

“No,” said Tante; “he does not even 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


81 


know that I have decided to bring you to 
America this summer. He has bothered 
me so much on the subject that I have not 
answered his last two letters. It will be 
time enough for him to know when he sees 
you.’’ 

So we are going to give my father a sur- 
prise. I don’t suppose it makes any dif- 
ference, but I cannot help wishing Tante 
had sent him word that we were coming. 
It would have been so much more polite 
and friendly. 


New Yoek, 
June Twenty-foueth. 

When I began this book three weeks ago, 
how little I dreamed of all the interesting 
things I should have to put in it. ^‘Co- 
lette” never had such interesting expe- 
riences as mine, even if she did pray to a 
silver image, and marry a charming young 
man in the end. 

We have been in New York for nearly 


82 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


twenty-four hours, but I have not yet met 
my father. So much has happened that I 
scarcely know how to begin writing about 
it all, and with this dreadful noise in my 
ears it is difficult to settle down quietly 
to anything. Tante has gone to lie down, 
closing both windows in her room to keep 
out the noise, but it is very warm, and I 
think I rather prefer noise to heat, so my 
windows are open, and when Suzanne 
asked me a question a few moments ago, 
I had to fairly shout to make her hear. I 
really did not suppose that any place in 
the world could be quite so noisy as New 
York. Tante and Suzanne detest it, and 
I suppose I ought to detest it too, but it is 
all so gay and exciting that I canT help 
liking it, although I am very careful not to 
tell Tante so. 

We landed yesterday afternoon. The 
approach to New York is very interesting; 
I never saw so many high buildings or so 
much smoke before in my life. Monsieur 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


83 


Lor ant says the smoke of London is much 
worse, but then I have never been to Lon- 
don. Some of the high buildings are 
called ^^sky-scrapers” — I heard a gentle- 
man on the ship say so — and they really 
do look as if their roofs could almost touch 
the sky. But the harbor was beautiful, 
with the bright sunshine over everything ; 
the islands and the forts, and the high 
buildings in the distance. I heard a lady, 
who was standing behind me on deck, say 
most enthusiastically in English : 

^^Well, America’s good enough for me.” 
And all at once, and for the first time in 
my life, I felt proud that my father was an 
American. 

There was a dreadful crowd and con- 
fusion at the pier, and when we got off 
the ship I clung tight to Tante, afraid of 
being separated from her for a moment 
lest I should be swept away by that dread- 
ful pushing, jostling crowd. Monsieur 
Lorant very kindly offered to attend to 


84 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


getting our trunks througli the customs 
with his own, so in a few moments we left 
the pier, and he put Madame Lorant, 
Tante, Suzanne and me, all into a carriage 
and told the driver to take us to this hotel. 
Fortunately both Monsieur and Madame 
Lorant speak English very well, for no 
one at the pier seemed to speak anything 
else, and I was so frightened and be- 
wildered that I am sure I should never 
have been able to remember a word. 

The drive through the city was very in- 
teresting and curious. I kept seeing new, 
strange things every minute, and got so 
excited that I am afraid I interrupted Ma- 
dame Lorant several times, and at last 
Tante told me to calm myself and not be- 
have like a little fool. After that I did 
not speak again except in a whisper to 
Suzanne — ^who sat next to me — but I could 
not help looking, and really some of the 
things I saw were most extraordinary. 
In one place we crossed a street where 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


85 


there was a railway over our heads, and 
as we passed a train rushed by, making 
the most tremendous noise I have ever 
heard. I was afraid the horses would be 
frightened, but they did not even seem to 
notice it. Tante leaned back and closed 
her eyes, and when she could make herself 
heard again, murmured Horrible!’’ but 
Madame Lorant laughed and seemed to 
think it all quite amusing. She has been 
in New York twice before, and says one 
soon gets accustomed to the noise, but I 
am afraid Tante never will, for she seems 
to mind it more and more every hour we 
stay here. 

After a while we turned into a quieter 
street, which Madame Lorant told us is 
called Fifth Avenue and in a few minutes 
more the carriage stopped before this 
hotel, which is very large, and is called 
the Waldorf-Astoria. 

Monsieur Lorant had telegraphed from 
the ship for rooms, and a very nice-look- 


86 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


ing young man took our bags, and showed 
us upstairs. He took us in a lift which 
went so fast that Tante was made quite 
ill from the motion and she positively re- 
fused to go above the second floor, for fear 
of fire. She told the porter so very de- 
cidedly, but he only smiled and shook his 
head and did not seem to understand a 
word she said. Then Madame Lorant ex- 
plained in English, and he tried to per- 
suade Tante that the hotel was perfectly 
fire-proof, but she remained firm, as she 
always does when she has made up her 
mind, and in the end the young man took 
us down again, and gave us a salon and 
two bed-rooms on the first floor above the 
street with windows looking out on Fifth 
Avenue. Suzanne has a little room di- 
rectly across the hall, looking into a court. 
Madame Lorant said it would be much less 
noisy higher up, but Tante said she would 
rather lie awake all night listening to that 
hideous racket, than run the risk of being 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


87 


burned to death in her bed. She said she 
had read of the dreadful fires they were 
always having in America, and did not 
choose to take any risks. She did not like 
the idea of the porter’s not speaking 
French. She says porters at large hotels 
should always understand several lan- 
guages but Madame Lorant says thi'ngs 
are different here, and that it is necessary 
to speak English fluently in order to make 
one’s self understood. Tante gave a long 
sigh, and said she knew this was a barba- 
rous country, but that fortunately Victo- 
rine had been studying English for the 
past four years, and it was to be hoped 
knew enough to make herself intelligible. 
That frightened me a little, and I began to 
wonder what would happen if I should not 
be able to make myself intelligible. 

As soon as Madame Lorant had left us 
alone, I asked Tante if we were going to 
see my father at once, but she said it was 
too late, and she supposed he could sur- 


88 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


vive another night without seeing us, con- 
sidering he had no idea we were in Amer- 
ica. That made me more comfortable, 
for although of course I am anxious to see 
niy father, I cannot help dreading the first 
meeting, and so as Tante seemed rather 
tired, and not inclined to talk, I went and 
looked out of the window till the trunks 
came. It was very interesting; the street 
was crowded with people, and every one 
seemed in a hurry. There were a great 
many carriages and automobiles, and there 
were also motor busses, so crowded with 
people, both inside and out, that I won- 
dered why they did not upset. It was like 
Paris, only much noisier, and at the end of 
half an hour my eyes were so tired that I 
had to close them for a little rest. 

It was nearly dark before the trunks 
came. A porter brought them up, and 
Tante told me to give him a pourboire. 
She handed me her purse, with some 
American money in it. I took out a big 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


89 


silver piece, and asked the porter in Eng- 
lish if he would kindly tell me how much 
it was. My heart beat fast, I was so 
afraid he might not understand, bnt he 
said quite politely, Fifty cents, Miss,^^ 
and I handed it to him at once, at which he 
seemed very much pleased. Afterwards 
Tante scolded me for being so extravagant. 
It seems fifty cents is more than two 
francs, bnt I was so nervous that I quite 
forgot to calculate. I must be more care- 
ful in future. 

The Lorants were to leave on the night 
train for Montreal, but they invited us to 
dine with them first, so as soon as we had 
changed our dresses we all went down to 
the restaurant together. It was the first 
big restaurant I have ever seen, for in 
Paris Tante and I had our meals in our 
salon, and I really never imagined any- 
thing so gay. The lights were so bright, 
and the ladies wore such beautiful dresses, 
and there was an orchestra which played 


90 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


delightfully all the time we were having 
dinner. I saw Tante looking about rather 
disapprovingly, and she said afterwards 
that she would never take me to such a 
place again, as it was not at all suitable 
for young girls, but I am glad I have seen 
it once, for it was beautiful and I shall 
never forget it. The waiters spoke 
French, which pleased Tante, and Mon- 
sieur Lorant ordered a most delicious din- 
ner. It seems very strange to remember 
that only a week ago I was thinking of 
America as a strange, half-civilized coun- 
try. 

The Lorants had to leave for their train 
as soon as dinner was over, so we said 
good-bye in the corridor, and then Tante 
brought me right upstairs, although I 
should have loved to stay and watch those 
ladies in their wonderful toilettes. We 
found Suzanne very much upset because 
she had not been able to find any one who 
spoke French, and had in consequence 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


91 


been obliged to eat whatever the waiter 
chose to bring her. Suzanne is very par- 
ticular about what she eats, as a great 
many things disagree with her, and so she 
was not at all pleased. Tante sighed, and 
said it was only what one might expect, 
and Suzanne made some very uncompli- 
mentary remarks about America, which I 
think I will not write down. 

Tante had a headache, and was tired, so 
we all went to bed very early, but it was a 
long time before we could sleep. The 
noise in the street was dreadful, and it 
was very hot. I thought Nice was hot in 
summer, but I really believe the heat here 
is even worse. At last I did fall asleep, 
and I think I must have slept for some time 
when I was awakened by the most terrible 
racket I have ever heard in my life. There 
was a terrible shrieking whistle, that 
sounded loud enough to wake the dead, a 
great clanging of bells and something that 
sounded like the clatter of horses ’ feet go- 


92 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


ing very fast. Before I was fully awake 
Tante was at my bedside, and at tbe same 
moment tbe door — ^whicb I bad forgotten 
to lock — ^was burst suddenly open, and Su- 
zanne rusbed in, in ber flannel wrapper 
and bare feet. 

‘‘Wbat is it — ^wbat bas happened?’^ I 
gasped. 

‘‘It is fire — ob, mon Dieu, it is fire!^^ 
shrieked Suzanne, wringing ber bands. 
“We shall all be burned alive!” 

“Be quiet, Suzanne,” commanded 
Tante. “Get up, Victorine, and dress as 
quickly as you can. I will collect tbe 
money and valuables.” She was very 
pale, and I think she was trembling, but 
Tante never loses ber presence of mind. 

I sprang out of bed, and began putting 
on my clothes, but my bands shook so that 
I could not dress nearly as fast as I wanted 
to. Tante sent Suzanne off to ber room to 
dress, and began putting on ber own 
clothes. Tbe terrible noise bad died 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


93 


away, and I suddenly noticed that every- 
thing was very quiet. I wondered why 
there was not more confusion, and why no 
one came to warn us of our danger. 

In about five minutes Tante came back 
into my room. She was fully dressed, 
even to her hat and veil. 

‘^Everything seems quiet, she said. 
“I am going out into the hall to see if there 
is any smoke.’’ 

She disappeared, but was back again in 
a moment looking puzzled. 

“I don’t smell any smoke,” she said, 
“and there are no people about. Perhaps 
the fire has been extinguished.” 

Just then Suzanne returned, also 
dressed, and carrying her big valise in her 
arms. 

“I am ready, Madame,” she an- 
nounced. “Shall we go downstairs?” 

“I don’t think the fire can be in this part 
of the building,” said Tante. “Still, we 
must not take any risks. There is a tele- 


94 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


phone. Victorine, telephone to the office, 
and inquire where the fire is.” 

I was trembling very much, but I think 
it was more at the thought of having to 
speak English through a telephone than 
the thought of our danger. However, I 
dared not disobey Tante, so I went to the 
telephone, and took off the receiver. 
There was a moment’s silence, and then a 
very sleepy voice said Hello!” I was 
not quite sure what Hello” meant, but 
said in the most correct English I could re- 
member — 

‘‘Would you perhaps be so kind as to 
tell me if we are in any danger?” 

“Danger?” repeated the voice; “what 
kind of danger?” 

“The fire,” I said, politely; “are we in 
danger from the fire?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking 
about,” said the voice, and this time it 
sounded decidedly impatient. “Where’s 
the fire?” 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


95 


— I do not know where it I fal- 
tered. ^‘We thought it was here. We 
heard the pumps. 

“The engines, I suppose you mean,” 
said the voice. “They often pass here. I 
don’t know where the fire is. It may be a 
mile away.” And she shut olf the tele- 
phone with a snap. 

I suppose we ought to have been very 
thankful that we were in no danger, but I 
really think Tante and Suzanne were both 
more annoyed than relieved. Tante said 
she should not undress again, for she was 
sure she would never be able to sleep after 
such a shock, and Suzanne said she was 
afraid to go back to her room. Tante told 
her she might sleep on the sofa in the salon 
if she liked, and she herself would sit in 
the arm-chair by the open window till 
morning. I thought at first that I would 
sit up, too, but in a little while I grew very 
sleepy, and when I found that it was only 
two o’clock, I decided to undress again. 


96 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


So I went back to bed, and fell asleep al- 
most as soon as my bead touched the pil- 
low. 

I slept so soundly that I never heard the 
noise in the street, which Tante said began 
again as soon as it was light, and did not 
wake till Suzanne called me at half-past 
seven. Tante said she and Suzanne had 
both passed a frightful night and she 
looked just like that picture of the martyr 
that hangs in the salon at home. He is 
the ancestor who was burned at the stake, 
of whom Tante is so proud. Suzanne was 
dreadfully cross, and made such a fuss 
about going down to breakfast in the 
maids’ dining-room, where nobody speaks 
anything but English, that Tante told her 
she might have her coffee with us in the 
salon. The waiter who came for our order 
did not speak French, and I had to explain 
what we wanted in English, but he seemed 
to understand without any difficulty, and 
the coffee and rolls were really delicious. 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


97 


But I could not enjoy my breakfast, or 
anything else this morning, for I was hor- 
ribly nervous at the thought of meeting 
my father. My hands and feet were cold, 
though it was a very hot morning, and my 
heart kept throbbing in big frightened 
jumps. Tante said we must go early, or 
my father might not be at home, so as soon 
as we had finished our breakfast we went 
downstairs, and I asked one of the hall 
boys to call a cab for us. Tante had the 
address written out on a card, and as I 
was afraid I might not pronounce the 
words correctly, I handed it to the cab 
driver, who smiled and nodded to show 
that he understood. I think the porter 
must have explained to him that we were 
foreigners. 

We drove quite a long distance, but I 
was too nervous and preoccupied to pay 
much attention to anything we passed. 
Tante thought we might see some traces of 
last night ^s fire, but we did not, and we 


98 VICTOEINE^S BOOK 

both came to the conclusion that New York 
streets were very bewildering. 

At last the cab stopped before a nice- 
looking brown stone house on a quiet 
street, and the driver jumped down and 
opened the door. My knees were shaking 
so that I could scarcely stand, and I really 
do not know how I ever managed to get 
up the front steps to ring the door-bell. 

^^All the blinds are closed,” said Tante, 
as she followed me up the steps. ‘‘It 
looks as if the family were away.” 

I gave a little gasp that was something 
between disappointment and relief, and 
rang the door-bell a second time. We 
rang three times before any one came, and 
then a woman appeared at the foot of the 
steps^ — I think she had come up from the 
basement — and asked what we wanted. 

‘ ‘ Speak to her, ’ ’ said Tante in a tone of 
command; “she does not look like a per- 
son who would understand French.” 

“Is Mr. Maitland at home?” I asked. 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


99 


but my voice trembled so I was afraid she 
might not be able to hear me. 

said the woman, who was look- 
ing at us rather curiously; ‘‘he’s out of 
town; he won’t be back till after the 
Fourth.” 

I had no idea what “after the Fourth” 
meant, but I told Tante what the woman 
had said, and she told me to ask for my 
father’s address. 

“He’s gone to the Cove,” she said in 
answer to my question. “They all went 
on the fifteenth, Mr. and Mrs. Maitland, 
and all the help. ’ ’ 

“Will you please tell me where the Cove 
is?” I asked, beginning to feel horribly 
bewildered. The woman looked as if she 
thought I had asked a rather foolish ques- 
tion. 

“Why, Lobster Cove, where they have 
their summer place,” she explained, a lit- 
tle impatiently. “I don’t know just where 
it is myself, but it’s somewhere in Maine.” 


100 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


I wanted to ask her where Maine was, 
but she did not look like a very intelligent 
person, so I asked instead if she would be 
so kind as to write down the address for 
us. She nodded and disappeared, re- 
turning in a moment with a card, on which 
was written in my father’s handwriting, 
the words, ‘‘Mr. Walter Maitland, Lobster 
Cove, Maine.” 

“We may as well go back to the hotel,” 
said Tante, when she had examined the 
card. “Perhaps some one there can tell 
us how to reach this place with the out- 
landish name.” 

I thanked the woman, who stood star- 
ing at us while we got back into the cab, 
Tante looking more like a martyr than 
ever. I told the driver to take us back to 
the Waldorf-Astoria, and we drove away. 

All the way home I was trying to recall 
the map of North America, and where the 
state of Maine is situated. But although 
I could distinctly remember the name, I 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


101 


had no idea whether it was North, South, 
East, or West. Tante scarcely spoke dur- 
ing the drive, hut sat up very straight and 
rigid, holding the card with my father’s 
address on it tightly in her hand. At last 
I took courage to ask her if she had any 
idea how far it was to the State of Maine, 
to which she replied : — 

‘‘It may he a thousand miles for aught I 
know, hut I shall he obliged to take you 
there.” 

“You are very good to me, Tante,” I 
said humhly. “I wish I did not give you 
so much trouble. I am afraid you will de- 
test another long journey.” 

“I shall certainly dislike it exceeding- 
ly,” said Tante, “hut I have never yet 
flinched from a duty, however unpleas- 
ant.” 

I said nothing more after that until we 
reached the hotel, and then Tante told me 
to ask one of the men at the desk how we 
were to reach the address on the card. 


102 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


My heart beat uncomfortably fast as I ap- 
proached the desk, with the card in my 
band, and put my question to a young man 
with a rather pleasant face, whose duty it 
appeared to be to attend to people’s wants. 

‘‘Would you be so very kind,” I began 
timidly, and speaking in my very best Eng- 
lish, “as to tell me how to reach this ad- 
dress?” 

He took the card from me, and looked 
at it curiously. 

“I can’t tell you at the moment,” he 
said, “but I’ll look it up for you.” 

I was not sure what “look it up” meant, 
but I said “Thank you,” and he opened a 
big book, and began turning over the 
pages. I thought he would surely request 
Tante to sit down, but he did not seem to 
think of it, so she stood, looking like an in- 
jured queen, all the time he was “looking 
up” Lobster Cove. It took him some time 
to find what he wanted, but at last he 
closed his book, and turned to me again. 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


103 


‘‘It’s twenty-five miles from Port- 
land,” he announced. “You’ll have to go 
to Portland first, and change cars there.” 

I wanted to ask where ‘ ‘ Portland ’ ’ was, 
but feared he would think me stupid, so I 
said instead — 

“Thank you very much, and now will 
you be so kind as to tell us how to reach 
Portland?” 

The young man looked rather amused, 
but he had such a nice, friendly smile that 
I did not mind, although Tante said after- 
ward that she was sure he intended to be 
insolent. 

“There are several different ways,” he 
said. “You can go by steamer, or by way 
of Boston, or, if you are in a hurry, you 
can take the Bar Harbor express which 
leaves here at nine o’clock to-night, and 
be in Portland in time for breakfast to- 
morrow morning.” 

I translated this to Tante, who shud- 
dered at the mention of a steamer and said 


104 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


she wished to go the shortest and most di- 
rect way, so it is settled that we are to go 
to-night on the Bar Harbor express. 

^‘Ask him if it is a train de luxe/^ said 
Tante. 

I did ask him, but he did not appear to 
know what a train de luxe** was, and only 
said that it was a good train all right. 
Tante said she disliked traveling on any- 
thing but a train de luxe at night, but she 
supposed it could not be helped, and she 
had never expected to be anything but un- 
comfortable when she came to America. 
So I asked the young man if he thought 
he could procure sleeping accommodations 
for us on the Bar Harbor express. He 
said he thought he could, as it was rather 
early for ‘‘the rush’^ and wanted to know 
if we cared for a drawing-room, or would 
be satisfied with a section. 

“Certainly we do not care for a draw- 
ing-room on a night journey,’’ said Tante, 
when I had translated this to her. “I 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


105 


never heard of such absurd extravagance. 
I have no idea what a section is, but tell 
him to secure one for us.’’ 

So the matter was settled by the young 
man’s promising to secure two sections for 
us, one for Tante, and the other for Su- 
zanne and me. Tante and Suzanne talked 
a good deal of what the man had said 
about a drawing-room on a sleeping train, 
and they agree in thinking the Americans 
a very strange, extravagant people. We 
all know that a drawing-room is what the 
English call a salon, and it does seem 
rather foolish to want a salon on a night 
train. 

And now it is late in the afternoon, and 
we have not left our rooms again since we 
came back from our unsuccessful attempt 
to find my father. I should have loved to 
go out again and see something more of 
New York, but Tante said it was too hot, 
and that she was afraid to trust herself to 
a cab driver who does not speak French. 


106 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


We liad luncheon in our salon; Tante 
would not take me down to that fascinating 
restaurant again ; and now we are waiting 
until it is time to start for the state of 
Maine. A porter has brought us our tick- 
ets, which the young man at the desk ob- 
tained for us, but, 0 dear I it is all very 
strange and different, and I am afraid 
that, like Suzanne, I am beginning to feel 
just a little homesick. 


Lobster Cove, 
June Twenty-fifth. 

It is only eight o’clock, but Tante has 
come upstairs, and is going to bed. She 
says she is completely exhausted from all 
she has been through. I am not at all 
sleepy, but was far too shy to stay down- 
stairs among all those strangers without 
her, so I let them think I was tired, too. 
So much has happened since I stopped 
writing in New York yesterday that I feel 
as if months must have passed instead of 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


107 


only a little more than twenty-four hours. 
But I will begin at the beginning, and try 
to tell everything just as it happened. 

We had an early dinner in our apartment 
at the Waldorf-Astoria, and at about eight 
o^clock in the evening started for the train. 
The train did not leave till nine, but Tante 
always likes to be on time for everything, 
and besides, she said we had no idea how 
far we might have to go. It was not far at 
all, as it happened, and we had to wait a 
long time before they would let us get on 
the Bar Harbor express, but the nice por- 
ter, who brought up our trunks, and to 
whom I gave the fifty cents, came with us 
to the station, and stayed with us until we 
were in the train with all our bags. He 
also attended to our trunks, which was a 
great relief, for I should never have known 
what to do with them myself. He gave us 
some little brass checks, and told us we 
would have no trouble, and could claim all 
our luggage when we reached Lobster 


108 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


Cove. He was so kind and helpful that I 
wanted to give him another fifty cents, but 
Tante said it was entirely too much, and 
only gave him a coin, called a quarter, 
which is not worth much more than a franc. 
Tante was very much upset over the hotel 
bill, which she said was criminal. It really 
was very high, and I was quite frightened 
myself when I added it up, but Tante said 
there was nothing to do but pay it, as she 
had always expected to be robbed in 
America. 

Our difficulties did not really begin until 
we were in the train, and then it was very 
uncomfortable. At first we could not find 
our sections at all. There was a nice little 
room at the end of the carriage, which 
looked like the one Tante and I had on the 
train from Nice to Paris, but when we at- 
tempted to go in, the black porter, who 
looked at our tickets, told us it was en- 
gaged. He showed us to two seats, which 
he said were ours, and when I asked him 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


109 


where we were to sleep, explained that the 
seats were turned into berths, and that 
there were curtains to let down. When I 
translated this to Tante she was very 
angry indeed. She said that nothing in 
the world would induce her to submit to 
such treatment, that she had paid for 
proper sleeping accommodations, and in- 
sisted upon having them. I tried to ex- 
plain this to the black porter, but he did 
not seem to understand, and kept repeating 
that those were our sections, and that if we 
wanted anything better we should have en- 
gaged the drawing-room. 

‘‘Tell him I will not have a drawing- 
room,” said Tante, when I had made her 
understand what the man was saying. 
“All I require is a proper place to sleep. 
Make him thoroughly understand that I 
will not submit to such treatment.” 

I was in despair, for I could see that the 
porter was growing impatient, and I really 
had no idea what to do. Suddenly I heard 


110 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


a sweet voice saying in French, close be- 
side me — 

“Pardon, Mademoiselle, but perhaps I 
may be able to explain to Madame. ’ ^ 

I turned my bead, and there stood the 
dearest, prettiest little woman, with a baby 
in her arms. There were two other chil- 
dren with her, a little girl and a boy, and 
they were all very plainly dressed, and 
looked like bourgeoisie, but the woman had 
the loveliest smile, and I do not think I 
have ever been quite so glad to see any one 
in my life. 

In a few words our new acquaintance 
explained to Tante that a drawing-room is 
only another word for stateroom, and that 
both the drawing-rooms in that carriage 
were engaged. Tante was very much dis- 
gusted, but admitted that the mistake had 
been ours. There was nothing to do but 
make the best of the situation, so we made 
ourselves as comfortable as we could, al- 
though Tante declared her firm intention 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


111 


of sitting up all night, and would not even 
take otf her hat. 

The French family— for they really were 
French — had the section opposite ours, 
and I soon became very much interested in 
watching them. I really think the mother 
was the prettiest little woman I have ever 
seen, and the children were such darlings. 
The eldest was a little girl of eight or nine, 
almost as pretty as her mother, but very 
white and delicate looking. Then came a 
chubby little boy of five, with adorable dim- 
ples. The baby was not more than a year 
old, but it was as good as possible, and 
laughed and crowed and clapped its hands, 
although it was after nine o’clock at night, 
and babies are usually fast asleep long be- 
fore that hour. 

I have always loved little children, al- 
though I have never had much to do with 
them, and Tante is very fond of them, too. 
At first I was afraid to pay much attention 
to the French family for fear Tante would 


112 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


reprove me for talking to people she did 
not know but I soon found that I need not 
be afraid, for she kept nodding and smil- 
ing to the children herself, especially at 
the little boy, who smiled back in the most 
friendly fashion. At last he came running 
over to our section, and tried to climb on 
Tante’s lap. I was rather shocked, and 
felt sure she would be displeased, but to 
my surprise, she lifted the little fellow up, 
and when his mother came to take him 
away, she smiled and said she was fond of 
children, and would like to keep him for a 
little while. So he stayed with us while 
their section was being made up, and while 
his mother was putting the other children 
to bed. He was such a darling, and talked 
the funniest mixture of French and Eng- 
lish I have ever heard. 

^^What is your name, cMrif I asked 
him. 

am called Paul,’’ he answered, ‘‘and 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


113 


I shall be six years old next month. 
Maman has something in the bag for my 
birthday.’’ 

When he said his name was Panl, I saw 
Tante draw him a little closer, and she 
looked at him with such a sad, wistful ex- 
pression in her eyes, that I felt sure she 
was thinking of her own Paul, who, accord- 
ing to Suzanne, must have been a fascina- 
ting little boy, too. 

^ ‘Where is your home, my little one?” 
she asked him tenderly. 

He replied that it was near the sea, and 
that he and Angele played on the beach, 
and went into the water without their 
shoes and stockings. He also told us they 
had been to New York to see the doctor, 
because Angele ’s back hurt her, and that 
they were going back to papa, who would 
be very glad to see them. 

‘ ‘ Wliy didn ’t your papa come with you ? ’ ’ 
I asked curiously, for I could not help 


114 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


thinking it was rather hard for that deli- 
cate little woman to have the care of all 
those children on a journey. 

Paul looked very solemn and shook his 
head. 

^^It costs much money to go to New 
York, ’ ’ he said. ^ ^ Papa must stay at home 
and make pictures. ’ ’ 

‘‘Does your papa paint pictures?’^ 
Tante asked, and her eyes looked sad and 
more wistful than ever. 

“Oh, yes,^^ said the little boy, “he makes 
beautiful ones, and I make pictures, too. 
When I am a big man I shall make very 
much money. ’ ’ 

I could not help laughing, but Tante did 
not laugh. Indeed, I am sure there were 
tears in her eyes. Just then the mother 
came for the little boy, to put him to bed, 
and we had no more conversation with 
him. 

“You have a charming little son, Ma- 
dame, said Tante, and she smiled so 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


115 


kindly at the little mother that she really 
looked almost pretty. I sometimes won- 
der if Tante would not smile oftener if she 
realized how different it makes her look. 
The mother seemed delighted with the com- 
pliment. 

‘^They are all dear children,’’ she said, 
and she looked so adorably pretty that I 
should have liked to kiss her. 

After that I went to bed. It was not 
very easy to undress behind a curtain, and 
the wash-room was away down at the other 
end of the carriage, but I managed as well 
as I could. Suzanne, who always follows 
Tante ’s example in everything, declared 
her intentions of sitting up all night, too, 
so she shared the section with Tante, and 
I had the other one all to myself. 

The train was going very fast, and every 
few minutes the engine would give a loud 
whistle, much louder and longer than any 
whistle I have ever heard at home. Tante 
says the Americans love to make a noise. 


116 VICTOEINE’S BOOK 

and the louder and more unpleasant it is, 
the better the people are pleased. It took 
me some time to get to sleep, hut when I 
was once off I did not wake again till I 
heard Suzanne’s voice, and opened my; 
eyes to find that it was broad daylight, and 
that Suzanne was peeping at me through 
the curtains. 

‘‘It is time to get up, Mademoiselle Vic- 
torine,” she said. 

“What time is it!” I asked sleepily, for 
I did not feel in the least like getting up. 

“It is after six,” said Suzanne, “and 
Madame wishes you to inquire how soon we 
shall reach Portland. I have tried to find 
out myself, but not a soul on this train 
speaks a word of anything but that barba- 
rous English.” 

‘ ‘ The lady with the children is French, ’ ’ 
I said; “perhaps she knows.” 

“She is asleep, poor thing, and Madame 
will not have her disturbed. She has been 
up most of the night with her little girl. 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


117 


who has been ill, but they are all resting 
quietly just now.” 

I sat np and began putting on my boots. 

Haven’t you been asleep at all, Su- 
zanne?” I asked, wondering how any one 
could possibly keep awake all night. 

Suzanne shook her head mournfully. 

‘‘Not one wink have either Madame or 
I had,” she said. “Indeed, we have been 
helping that poor young woman with her 
sick child most of the time. Madame has 
been an angel, as she always is.” 

I was not surprised, for Tante is always 
good to poor people, especially when they 
are ill or in trouble. But I was sorry for 
the poor little girl, and remembered what 
her brother had told us about her back 
hurting her. I dressed as quickly as I 
could, and by the time I was ready the 
family in the opposite section were also up. 
Poor little AngMe was very white, and 
there were lines of suffering round her 
mouth, but she was very patient, and when 


118 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


I asked her how she felt, she smiled, and 
answered in such a sweet little voice, 
^^Much better, thank you, Mademoiselle.’’ 
Tante and the mother seemed to he very 
good friends, and when the children had 
been taken down to the wash-room, Tante 
told me something about them. 

^ ^ They are a most interesting little fam- 
ily,” she said. am afraid they are 
very poor, but it is easy to see that the 
mother is a lady, and I have never seen 
children more beautifully brought up. 
The little girl has spinal trouble, and is 
very delicate. Her mother has just taken 
her to a New York surgeon, who advises 
an operation, but she naturally shrinks 
from sending the little one to a hospital 
alone, and she cannot leave the others and 
stay with her herself. It is very sad, and 
I wish I could help them, but they are not 
the sort of people to whom one could offer 
money. The husband is an artist, and 
poor like most of them, I suppose.” Tante 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


119 


sighed, and looked so very sad that I was 
sure she was thinking of Paul. 

“What is their nameT’ I asked, for I 
was really almost as much interested in 
that nice little family as Tante herself. 

“I don^t know,’^ she answered. “The 
woman did not mention her name, and I 
did not feel at liberty to ask her.’’ 

We reached Portland at about half-past 
seven, and found ourselves in a big, noisy 
station, which seemed almost as noisy and 
confusing as the one in New York. We 
said good-bye to our new friends before 
leaving the train, and I saw tears in the 
little mother’s eyes when she took Tante ’s 
hand and kissed it. 

^ ^ I have no words in which to thank you 
for all your kindness,” she said. “I can 
only ask the good God to bless you.” 

Tante said, “Nonsense I” quite sharply, 
and tried to look annoyed, hut I know she 
was touched all the same. The family 
were also leaving the train at Portland, 


120 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


and I saw the black porter lift little Angele 
in his arms, and carry her so tenderly, that 
I think Tante quite forgave him for not 
understanding a word of French. 

Tante asked the mother if they had 
much farther to go, and she said, ^‘Not 
very much farther,’’ but did not mention 
the place they were going to, and we soon 
lost sight of them among the crowd in the 
station. 

I am not nearly as much afraid of speak- 
ing English as I was two days ago. 
Every one seems to understand me, and 
after all, there is nothing like getting ac- 
customed to things. So -I walked quite 
boldly up to the ticket office and asked how 
soon the next train would leave for Lob- 
ster Cove. The ticket porter did not have 
to ^‘look up Lobster Cove,” as the man at 
the Waldorf-Astoria did, but replied at 
once that there was a train at half-past 
nine, which would reach Lobster Cove at 
a little before eleven. 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


121 


Tante was quite upset when she found 
that she would have to spend two hours 
in that noisy place, and Suzanne declared 
that she should faint if she did not have a 
cup of coffee, so Tante told me to inquire 
the name of the best hotel, where we could 
rest and have breakfast. The ticket por- 
ter appeared to know all about the hotels, 
and advised us to go to the Lafayette, 
which he said was not far off. I was 
really beginning to feel quite proud of my 
English, and I hailed a cab, and directed 
the driver to take us to the Lafayette. 

Portland seemed to be a very noisy 
place, and we could scarcely hear ourselves 
speak, as we rattled through the streets, 
with tram-cars rushing by, but when we 
reached the hotel, it looked neat and quiet, 
and a very polite young man showed us to 
the restaurant, which was on the top floor. 
Tante said the motion of the lift made her 
ill, and we went so fast that Suzanne gave 
a little shriek of terror, but the restaurant 


122 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


was really very attractive, and tlie view 
from tlie windows was wonderful. We se- 
cured a nice little table to ourselves close 
to an open window, from which we could 
look out over the harbor crowded with 
ships, and a girl in a white apron handed 
Tante the menu. It was in English, and 
after one disgusted glance, she pushed it 
across the table to me, saying wearily — 
Order whatever you choose. I am 
much too exhausted to eat.’^ 

Suzanne, however, was not too ex- 
hausted to eat, and neither was I, so I or- 
dered a nice breakfast of eggs and coffee, 
which we both enjoyed very much. Tante 
managed to drink two cups of coffee, and 
I think she enjoyed her soft-boiled egg, 
although she said it might have been 
fresher. I was really very hungry, and 
when the waitress asked me if I would not 
like some griddle cakes and maple syrup, 
I said yes, although I had not the least 
idea what they were. Tante said I was 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


123 


very extravagant. The griddle cakes were 
a kind of crepes, and were very good, bnt 
the maple syrup was queer, and I could 
not decide whether I liked it or not. I 
think it must be an American dish, for I 
never heard of it before. 

Tante thought the bill for the breakfast 
was very high. They charge a dollar — 
which is five francs — for each of us, and 
it did not seem to make any difference how 
much or how little we ate. I was rather 
sorry I had not taken another egg when I 
found that I had to pay just as much for 
one as for two. There were two men at 
a table opposite to us, who ordered beef- 
steak, fried potatoes and boiled eggs, and 
finished off with griddle cakes, and I sup- 
pose they did not have to pay any more 
than we did. 

There was still some time to wait, so 
when we had finished breakfast we sat in 
the reception room until it was time to go 
back to the station. I looked out of the 


124 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


window, and I think Tante and Suzanne 
both dozed in their chairs. At nine o ^clock 
we took another cab to the station, and 
were shown to a long train, which seemed 
to be composed entirely of third-class car- 
riages. Tante was very indignant, and at 
first refused to get in, although we had 
been told that was the only train that 
stopped at Lobster Cove before the after- 
noon. 

“Tell them to show us to a first-class 
carriage,’’ she said, with her air of grand 
dame, which always awes people at home. 
But it does not seem to awe people here at 
all. When I asked the man who had 
punched our tickets, where the first-class 
carriages were, he replied that there 
wasn’t any parlor car on that train, and 
then turned away to speak to some one 
else. It was very annoying, but at last 
Suzanne and I persuaded Tante to get into 
one of the carriages, as the train was going 
to start in a few minutes, but though she 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


125 


consented, she looked more like a martyr 
on the way to the stake than ever. 

I cannot tell much about the journey 
from Portland to Lobster Cove. It was 
very hot, and very dusty, and Tante was 
so uncomfortable that she began to look 
really ill, hut I was so nervous, and so ab- 
sorbed in thinking about the coming meet- 
ing with my father, that I scarcely glanced 
out of the window at the scenery. Every 
few minutes the train would stop, and a 
man would put his head in at the door, and 
shout something in a loud sing-song voice. 
At first I had no idea what he was saying, 
but it suddenly occurred to me that he 
must be telling the names of the stations, 
and then I began to be afraid that I might 
not be able to understand when he called 
Lobster Cove. Fortunately, the conduc- 
tor had a kind face, so I asked him please 
to let us know when it was time to get otf. 
He said Lobster Cove would be the next 
station but two, and promised to help us 


126 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


with our bags. Everything would have 
been all right if only Tante had not been 
quite so slow, but she never likes to be 
hurried, and when the man at the door 
shouted ‘‘Lobster Cove” and the conduc- 
tor came to help us, she took so long gath- 
ering her things together, that the con- 
ductor grew quite impatient, and said, 
“Step lively, ma’am; the train can’t wait 
all day.” Tante wanted to know what he 
was saying, and while I was trying to ex- 
plain that I was afraid we would have to 
hurry a little, the train began to move. 
The conductor ran to the door, and 
shouted something, and the train stopped 
again, but it had moved away from the 
platform, and when Tante saw that she 
would have to take a very long step to 
reach the ground, she declared that she 
could never do it. I was dreadfully wor- 
ried, for I knew the people were getting 
impatient, and was so afraid the train 
would start again before we were off, but 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


127 


before any of us bad time to realize what 
was happening, the conductor had lifted 
Tante right up in his arms, and deposited 
her on the ground. 

I never saw poor Tante so angry in my 
life. She said she had been insulted, and 
wanted to call a policeman to arrest that 
impudent conductor, but while Suzanne 
and I were looking about in search of one, 
the train started, and the last we saw of 
that dreadful man he was standing on the 
platform of the last carriage, holding on 
to the railing, and laughing as if his sides 
would split. 

After all, perhaps it was just as well, 
for I am sure we should never have found 
a policeman at that forlorn little station. 
Indeed, there were not more than half a 
dozen people to be seen, and no vehicle of 
any description. Tante staggered to a 
bench and sat down. 

* ‘ Get me some water, ’ ^ she said, weakly ; 


feel faint. 


128 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


Suzanne flew to the waiting-room for a 
glass of water, and I made a frantic 
search in Tante’s bag for her smelling- 
salts. I found the salts and was holding 
them to Tante’s nose, when Suzanne came 
back without the water, not having been 
able to find any in the waiting-room, which 
she declared to be ‘‘an abominable hole.’’ 
Fortunately, Tante was beginning to feel 
better, and in another moment she pushed 
away the salts, and told me to go and se- 
cure a cab, so leaving her in Suzanne’s 
care, I went myself into the waiting-room, 
which did not seem such a dreadful place 
as Suzanne had described. There was 
a man at the ticket office, and I asked 
him where I could procure a cab to take 
us to the residence of Mr. Walter Mait- 
land. He stared at me curiously for a 
moment, and then said in a slow, drawl- 
ing voice — 

“The barge’ll be round in a few minutes. 
It always meets the trains, but I guess it’s 



I NEVER SAW POOR TANTE SO ANGRY IN MY LIFE.— Pa^e 127 . 




VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


129 


late this time. Jim ’ll take you wherever 
you want to go.” 

‘‘Who is Jim?” I asked. 

“He drives the barge. He’ll be here 
pretty soon, I guess.” 

“Do you know where Mr. Maitland 
lives?” 

“Sure,” said the man, and with this 
comforting assurance, I went back to 
Tante and Suzanne. 

“Have you secured a cab?” Tante asked, 
anxiously. 

“There are not any cabs here,” I said, 
“but a barge is coming in a few minutes, 
and that will take us.” 

“What in the world is a barge?” de- 
manded Tante. 

I said that I had no idea, but that it was 
evidently a conveyance which met trains 
at the station, and then we all sat down on 
the bench and waited. 

We waited at least ten minutes, and as 
it was very hot and sunny on the plat- 


130 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


form, Tante began to feel faint again, and 
Suzanne looked dreadfully cross and up- 
set. I think I should have minded the 
waiting more if I had not been so nervous 
at the thought of meeting my father, that 
I was thankful for every delay that put 
off the dreadful moment. At last we saw 
a cloud of dust approaching along the hot 
white road, and it was followed by a pair 
of white horses, and a big lumbering om- 
nibus. There was no one in the omnibus 
except the man who was driving, but at 
sight of us he drew up to the platform, and 
I felt sure this must be the barge. I told 
Tante so, but she refused to move, and de- 
clared in the most solenm tone, that, noth- 
ing would induce her to get into such a 
dreadful vehicle. I was terribly dis- 
tressed, for I knew we could not sit there 
all day, and the barge was the only con- 
veyance of any kind that we had seen 
since our arrival. Fortunately, the driver 
came to my rescue. 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


131 


‘^Want to get in?’’ he inquired, glan- 
cing at onr luggage. Sorry to be late, 
but there was something the matter with 
one of the hind wheels, and I had to stop 
to fix it.” 

I did not repeat the sentence about the 
hind wheel to Tante, but I told her that if 
she would not get into the barge, I was 
afraid we should have to walk, and as 
Tante detests walking more than almost 
anything else in the world, she consented, 
and we all got in. The driver began at 
once to pile our luggage on top. When 
he had finished, he looked in at the win- 
dow, and inquired in the same slow drawl 
that I had noticed in the ticket porter — 

^^Where to?” 

^^To Mr. Walter Maitland’s residence, 
if you please, ’ ’ I said ; and my voice would 
tremble in spite of all my efforts not to 
let any one suspect how nervous I was. 

The man nodded, climbed into his seat, 
chirruped to his horses, and we were off. 


132 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


It was very stuffy in the barge, and the 
motion made Tante so ill that she was 
obliged to resort to the smelling salts 
again, but by that time I was really too 
frightened to think much about anything. 
It was very hot and dusty, and the horses 
walked nearly all the way, but I did not 
mind that; I was thankful for every mo- 
ment of delay. Once an automobile 
dashed by, and I noticed that the people in 
it looked at us curiously, as if they were 
interested. One of them, a girl of about 
my own age, smiled at me in quite a 
friendly way. 

At last we turned a sharp corner, and 
came suddenly in full view of the bay, 
dotted here and there with small islands, 
and at the same moment a delicious salt 
breeze blew in our faces. Tante gave a 
gasp of relief, and I exclaimed involun- 
tarily, ^^How beautiful!^’ Just then the 
barge turned in at a gate, and drew up be- 
fore a large white house, with a broad ve- 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


133 


randa. The driver jumped down and 
opened the door. 

^‘Here you are/’ he said, and evidently 
expected us to get out. 

‘^Ask him if this is Mr. Maitland’s 
house,” said Tante. 

But before my shaking lips could form 
the question, the front door opened, and a 
gentleman came out on the veranda. I 
knew him at the first glance, although I 
had really forgotten what a handsome 
man my father was. Tante recognized 
him, too, but for the first moment he did 
not recognize us, and stood staring at us 
and our luggage, with an expression of 
blank astonishment on his face. It was 
only when Tante had stepped out of the 
barge, and was coming up the veranda 
steps, that he knew her, and sprang for- 
ward, with both hands outstretched, ex- 
claiming eagerly: 

‘‘Louise — Louise de Balfour ! Is it pos- 
sible!” 


134 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


is very possible/^ said Tante, 
calmly, for tboagh my father had spoken 
in English, she had understood the words. 
‘‘You insisted upon having Victorine, and 
I have brought her to you.’’ 

Then I gathered all my courage, and 
stepped forward. I was just going to kiss 
my father’s hand — ^which Suzanne told 
me was the respectful way of greeting him 
— ^when he caught me in his arms, and 
gave me a hug that nearly took away my 
breath. He kissed me a great many times, 
and then held me off at arm’s length, and 
looked at me very earnestly. I think 
there were tears in his eyes. 

“And so this is really little Victorine,” 
he said in his queer foreign French. “I 
can scarcely believe my eyes. Why, the 
child is almost a young lady, and I have 
been sending her dolls, and thinking of her 
as scarcely more than a baby.” And 
then he laughed and kissed me again. 

“She is fourteen,” said Tante, “but be- 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 135 

fore these trunks are taken off the onini- 
bns, will you have the goodness to tell me 
if there is a hotel in the neighborhood 
where my maid and I can obtain accom- 
modations! I suppose you will insist on 
keeping Victorine here with you!^’ 

‘^Insist on keeping her, I should say 
so!’’ cried my father. ^‘Now that I have 
got her at last. But you must all stay 
here ; there is plenty of room, and my wife 
will be delighted to have you. Why on 
earth didn’t you send me word you were 
coming! I would have met you at the 
steamer in New York.” 

‘‘I decided to come at the last moment,” 
said Tante, and I thought she looked a lit- 
tle embarrassed. thought I would give 
you a little surprise.” 

see,” said my father, and he laughed 
the big jolly laugh that I have always re- 
membered. ‘^Well, you have certainly 
succeeded; I was never more surprised in 
my life. It was good of you to come. 


136 VICTORINE’S BOOK 

Louise; I appreciate it more than I can 
express/’ 

He grasped Tante’s hand warmly, and 
his smile was so kind that I felt sure she 
would be touched, but she drew back 
stiffly, looking almost angry. 

‘‘There is nothing to thank me for,” she 
said. “I have only done what I consid- 
ered my duty.” 

My father looked disappointed, and I 
thought a little hurt, but he spoke as pleas- 
antly as ever. 

“Well, let us come into the house,” he 
said, “and I will show them where to put 
these trunks. I am sorry Mrs. Maitland 
is out. She has gone motoring with the 
young people, but they will be back before 
long.” 

He led the way into the house, but in 
the door-way he paused suddenly, put his 
arm round me and kissed me. 

“Welcome home, little girl,” he said, 
and his voice actually trembled. 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


137 


I felt a big lump rising in my throat, 
and if Tante had not been there I think I 
should have thrown my arms around his 
neck and hugged him. But of course 
Tante would have been shocked if I had 
done such a thing, so I just murmured 
‘‘Thank you’’ in a very low voice, and felt 
my cheeks growing uncomfortably hot. 

June Twenty-sixth. 

I had to stop writing last night; it was 
getting so late, and my hand was tired. I 
was so much interested in writing it all 
down, though, that I think I might have 
gone on till midnight if it had not been for 
Suzanne, who came in to see why my light 
was still burning. Suzanne has a nice lit- 
tle room next to Tante ’s, and she is much 
happier here than she was in New York, 
because my stepmother’s maid is French, 
and they have made friends. 

It is still very early in the morning, and 
I don’t think any one else is up, but I 


138 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


could not sleep any longer, and I thought 
I might as well get up and write for an 
hour as lie tossing in bed, thinking about 
uncomfortable things. 

I want to tell the whole story, so I will 
go back to the place where I left off last 
night. My father took us across a wide 
hall into a pleasant salon, and there left 
us for a few moments while he went to at- 
tend to the luggage. Tante sat down very 
stiffly on the edge of a sofa, and folded her 
hands in her lap. She still wore her mar- 
tyr expression, and I am sure she ex- 
pected me to look solemn, too, but I really 
couldn’t. I was so relieved to have that 
dreaded first meeting with my father over, 
that I felt as if a great burden had been 
lifted off my shoulders. I kept thinking 
how kind and dear and handsome he was, 
and though I am afraid it was little dis- 
loyal to Tante, I was beginning to feel 
very happy. I looked about the room, 
which was very pretty and comfortable. 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


139 


although not nearly as grand as Tante^s 
salon at home. The piano was covered 
with music, and there were a great many 
hooks on the table. It looked like a room 
that was used a good deal, and I saw 
Tante glance disapprovingly at a boy^s 
cap, which was lying on one of the chairs. 
I remembered what my father had said 
about his wife’s being out with the young 
people, and wondered if my stepmother 
could have children. I had never thought 
of that possibility before, and somehow 
I did not like it. I went to one of the 
windows and looked out, and then I for- 
got everything else, for the view was so 
lovely that it almost took away my breath. 
Right in front of me, almost within a 
stone’s throw, was the beautiful harbor, 
with the islands and the great rocks, and 
far away, as far as the eye could reach, 
was the wide Atlantic. It reminded me 
of Nice, only that it was all so much 
wilder. 


140 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


I was still looking out of the window 
when my father returned, and coming 
over to my side, laid his hand on my 
shoulder, and asked me in French if I were 
fond of the sea. I said, ^‘Yes, thank you,’^ 
and would have said more if I had not felt 
that Tante’s eyes were on me, and that 
made me shy and nervous. 

‘‘Speak to your father in English, Vic- 
torine,’’ she said. “She has had instruc- 
tion in English for more than four years,’’ 
she added to my father, who smiled and 
patted my shoulder. 

It was dreadfully foolish, of course, and 
I am ashamed when I think of it now, but 
when Tante told me to speak English, I 
really could not remember a single sen- 
tence. I was so nervous that I began to 
tremble all over. I saw Tante frown, and 
she said quite impatiently — 

“Don’t be a little fool; let your father 
see that you have been well taught. ’ ’ 

I think my father saw my embarrass-* 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


141 


ment, and was sorry for me, for he patted 
my shoulder, and said kindly: ‘‘Don’t 
hurry, there is plenty of time.” But 
Tante always requires prompt obedience, 
and I knew she would be angry if I de- 
layed any longer, so I made a great effort, 
and said in a very low, shaking voice: 

“It is a beautiful day, is it not?” 

“Very,” said my father gravely, but I 
saw a funny twinkle come into his eyes. 

“The air is much cooler here than on 
the train,” I went on desperately. “It 
was very hot and dusty on the train. I 
think American trains are very noisy.” 

“I hope you will like America,” said 
my father, looking down at me with such a 
kind, merry smile. “We shall be very 
much disappointed if you do not.” 

“Oh, I am quite sure I shall like it very 
much,” I said politely. “I like it al- 
ready.” 

“What are you talking about?” said 
Tante, in French. 


142 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


‘‘The attractions of America/’ said my 
father, gravely. 

“I hope she speaks correctly, and with 
a good accent,” said Tante, anxiously. “I 
have spared no expense in having her 
taught in accordance with your wishes, 
and I shall be very much mortified if she 
makes mistakes.” 

“Bless her heart, I don’t care how many 
mistakes she makes, so long as I have her 
at last,” said my father, and he gave me 
such a reassuring smile that my heart 
swelled with gratitude, and slipping my 
hand into his, I whispered, softly — 

“Thank you, my father.” 

Then Tante rose, and requested to be 
shown to her room, as she was very tired, 
and my father took us up to two very 
pleasant rooms on the second floor, which 
he said were ours. This is a wonderful 
old house; there are a great many rooms 
in it, and they are all filled with dear old- 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


143 


fashioned things. Tante thinks the fur- 
niture ugly, but I like it, somehow, though 
I don’t know exactly why. My father 
told us that it was originally an old farm- 
house, and belonged to his wife’s grand- 
father, but they have had it modernized, 
and spend their summers here, on account 
of the wonderful air. He also explained 
about the young people, and I was re- 
lieved to learn that they are not my step- 
mother’s children, but a niece and two 
nephews of hers, who are spending the 
summer here while their parents are 
abroad. 

My father left us for a little while, and 
Tante and Suzanne began to unpack, while 
I looked out of the window, and watched a 
little sailboat bobbing up and down in the 
bay. I was beginning to be very hungry; 
I was really too nervous to eat much at the 
hotel in Portland; and I was just won- 
dering at what time the family had de- 


144 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


jeuner, when there was a knock at the 
door, and my father came in again, accom- 
panied by his wife. 

At sight of my stepmother all my shy- 
ness returned, and I was almost afraid to 
look at her. I had just discovered that 
she was young and rather pretty, when 
she came up to me, and without waiting for 
any introduction, put her arm round my 
waist and kissed me. It was all over be- 
fore I had at all realized what was going 
to happen. 

‘‘This is a great surprise,’’ she said in 
English — and she really has a very pretty 
voice. “I can’t tell you how glad I am 
to see you, dear.” 

I drew a little away, and curtsied, as I 
knew Tante would wish me to do, and then 
my stepmother turned to her, and began 
talking to her in French. She speaks 
French with a much better accent than my 
father, and at first she seemed very friendly 
and cordial, but Tante looked so stern and 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


145 


dignified that, although she was extremely 
polite, as she always is, I think my step- 
mother was a little embarrassed. In a 
few minutes she and my father went away 
again, telling us that dinner would be 
ready in fifteen minutes. I was delighted 
to hear that we were to have something to 
eat, although one o’clock did seem a very 
strange hour for dinner, and Tante de- 
clared she had never heard of such a sav- 
age custom as dining in the middle of the 
day. The dining-room is a beautiful old 
room, with a very high ceiling, and win- 
dows facing in all directions. My father 
and stepmother were there before us, and 
in a few moments there was a great clatter 
of feet on the wooden stairs, and a girl 
and two boys came bounding into the 
room. The name of these young people is 
Eliot, and their father and my stepmother 
are brother and sister. The girl is over 
fourteen, and I recognized her at once as 
the same who had smiled at me from the 


146 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


motor-car. Her name is Maud, and she 
has a pleasant face, and a nice voice, but 
her manners, like those of her brothers, are 
terrible. Tante says she hopes with all 
her heart that I shall not be contaminated 
by them. The boys’ names are Dick and 
Charlie. Dick is the oldest of the family, 
and is nearly sixteen. His manners are a 
little better than the others, but there is a 
mischievous twinkle in his eyes, which 
makes me think he may not be as serious 
as he seems. Charlie is the youngest and 
decidedly the worst. He is not at all 
good-looking, and his face is covered with 
freckles. He is not in the least shy, and 
is continually teasing some one or other. 
I really quite detest Charlie already, al- 
though I am afraid it is very wrong and 
uncharitable. 

They all shook hands with us when my 
stepmother introduced them, and they did 
not appear to be any more in awe of 
Tante than of me. 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


147 


‘^You must speak French to Madame de 
Balfour/’ said my father; ‘‘she doesn’t 
understand English.” 

The boys both grew very red, and mur- 
mured something unintelligible, hut Maud 
said, Comment vous portez-votis?^^ in a 
very friendly way, though with the queer- 
est accent I have ever heard. Tante 
smiled and replied courteously, but she 
told me afterwards that “La petite Eliot” 
had the worst manners of any child she 
had ever seen. But I don’t think Maud 
really meant to be rude, although her 
French is atrocious, and I like her much 
better than Charlie. After shaking hands 
with Tante, she turned to me with the 
same friendly smile. 

“I hope you speak English,” she said, 
to which I replied that I spoke a little 
English, hut feared that I made many mis- 
takes. 

“Oh, I don’t care about the mistakes,” 
said Maud. “You probably don’t make 


148 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


half as many in English as I do in French. 
Mademoiselle says I am the poorest French 
scholar in the class, and my accent is 
frightful.’’ 

I quite agreed with her about the accent, 
though of course I did not say so, and 
then we all sat down to dinner. 

The dinner was very good, even if one 
o’clock did seem a strange hour at which 
to serve it, and I was so hungry that I was 
afraid Tante would reprove me for eating 
too much. I saw my father looking at me 
several times, but he did not appear at 
all shocked, and really I did not eat as 
much as the Eliots. 

During dinner the Eliots talked to each 
other in English. They tried to draw me 
into the conversation, hut I was so afraid 
of making mistakes that I only answered 
their questions in the shortest possible 
sentences, and after a while they left me 
alone. My father and stepmother talked 
French with Tante, who was very grand 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


149 


and dignified — I have an idea that my 
stepmother is a little afraid of her. I 
can’t help wishing my stepmother were not 
quite so pretty. I think it would he easier 
to remember Tante’s instructions about 
always treating her with distant respect 
if she were plainer, and not quite so 
friendly. The Eliots all seem very fond 
of her, and my father, too. They call 
them Aunt Jennie and Uncle Walter. I 
found out all about the Eliots before we 
had finished dinner. Their home is in 
California, and their parents have gone to 
Europe for the summer, leaving them all 
here with their aunt. They have a cousin 
named Peggy Lee, who lives in New Jer- 
sey, and who is also coming here next 
week for a visit. I think Peggy is about 
the ugliest name I have ever heard, but 
the Eliots all seem very glad she is com- 
ing, and Dick told me she was a corker,’ ’ 
whatever that may mean. The Eliot boys 
use a great many strange expressions that 


150 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


I have never heard before ; I suppose they 
are American idioms. On the whole, how- 
ever, I am rather pleased to find how easy 
it is to understand English. I think that, 
for the sake of practice, I will write down 
as much as I can remember of the Eliots’ 
conversation in English, and in that way 
I shall become more familiar with their 
expressions. 

After dinner Tante went to her room to 
lie down, and although I was not at all 
tired, I went with her. I was afraid to be 
left alone with all those strangers, but 
should have liked to stay and talk to my 
father if my stepmother had not been there, 
too. Oh, why did he have to marry her! 
We might have all been so happy together 
if he had only remained faithful to my 
mother’s memory. Tante does not like my 
stepmother at all, and she has forbidden 
me to have any more to do with the Eliots 
than I can help. She gave me a long lec- 
ture before she lay down for her nap, and 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 151 

it made me uncomfortable all tbe rest of 
tbe afternoon. I am afraid life here is 
going to be difficult. I am not to be inti- 
mate with any one except my father, and 
I am never to forget for a moment about 
my stepmother’s usurping my mother’s 
place. I lay down on my bed for a little 
while, but it was impossible to sleep, so 
I got up again, and spent the next hour 
peeping out through the blinds at the 
Eliots, who were playing tennis, and 
seemed to be having a very good time. 
By and by my father came out and joined 
in the game. 

I saw him glance up at my window sev- 
eral times, but of course he could not see 
me behind the blinds, and oh, how I did 
wish I had the courage to go down, but 
perhaps Tante would not have been 
pleased. 

At five o’clock Tante got up and dressed, 
and we went down and sat on the veranda 
till supper time. It was very beautiful 


152 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


there, but every one seemed rather con- 
strained, and in a little while the Eliots 
went off for a row in their boat. Maud 
asked me to go with them, but Tante is 
very nervous about boats, so I had to de- 
cline, although I was sorry, for I think I 
should like Maud if I knew her better, she 
is so friendly. 

Supper was at half -past six. The Eliots 
were rather late, but nobody scolded them. 
My stepmother certainly knows how to 
give people good things to eat. We had 
more of those delicious griddle cakes, and 
I liked the maple syrup better the second 
time than the first. 

After supper every one went out on the 
veranda again, and my father took me for 
a little walk. He asked Tante to come, 
too, but she was afraid of the dampness, 
so we went alone, and that was really the 
pleasantest part of the whole day. My 
father is very kind, and I love him, but I 
am afraid he is disappointed in me, es- 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


153 


pecially in my English. He looks at me 
so oddly sometimes when I am speaking, 
and there is such a funny twinkle in his 
eyes. Not that he has heard me speak 
very often, for I am too much afraid of 
making mistakes to say more than I can 
possibly help. He asked me about my 
home in Nice, and how I liked my gov- 
erness, and what friends I had, and I an- 
swered all his questions, but I did not make 
any voluntary remarks, and before long 
Charlie came to call us in. Tante was 
afraid I might take cold in the night air, 
he said. Both my father and Charlie 
seemed to think that rather absurd, and I 
suppose it was foolish to he afraid of tak- 
iug cold on such a warm night. I saw my 
father frown when Charlie brought the 
message, and he muttered something un- 
der his breath. I did not understand the 
expression, but it was something about 
“mollycoddling.’’ I wonder what “mol- 
lycoddling” means. But I hear Tante 


154 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


moving about in her room and talking to 
Suzaime, so I must burry and get ready 
for breakfast. 


June Twenty-seventh. 

It is Sunday afternoon, and Tante and 
I have come up to our rooms. All the 
others have gone sailing, but Tante does 
not approve of sailing on Sunday, so she 
would not let me go. She has gone to 
take her afternoon nap, and I think I will 
write a little in my book. I find it com- 
forts me very much to write, and I do 
need a little comfort to-day. 

We have only been here two days, but I 
can see already that things are going to 
be very difficult and uncomfortable. No- 
body likes me, of that I am sure. The 
Eliots all look at me in such a queer, 
amused way, and I have seen them whis- 
pering together several times, and feel 
sure they are criticising me. Tante 
scarcely allows me to stir from her side. 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


155 


and I know she is very unhappy here. 
She does not say much, hut her lips are 
always set, and she looks so stem and sol- 
emn that really I am not surprised that 
my stepmother is afraid of her. But I 
could hear everything else if I were only 
sure that I could please my father, for I 
love him more and more every day, and, 
oh, how happy I should be if I could make 
him love me, too! He has been so kind 
that I was almost sure he did love me, but 
this morniag something happened, which 
I am afraid has made him angry, for he 
has looked very grave and worried ever 
since. It was all about my stepmother, of 
course, and I really do not see how I could 
have acted differently, but it has made me 
very uncomfortable. 

Everybody went to church this morn- 
ing except Tante. She said she could not 
understand the English service, and would 
stay at home and read one of Monsieur 
Baroque’s sermons, of which she has 


156 


yiCTOEINE’S BOOK 


brought a number in her trunk. I think 
she wanted me to stay with her, but my 
father said quite decidedly that he wished 
me to go to church with him, so she said 
nothing, and we all started at a little after 
ten. The walk to church was very pleas- 
ant; we went along the beach most of the 
way, and every one seemed in good spir- 
its. It is surprising how much more 
cheerful they all are when Tante is not 
with them. Maud asked me to walk with 
her, and I talked more than I have done at 
any time since I came here. It was only 
just as we were approaching the funny lit- 
tle church, which they say used to be a 
life-saving station, and is almost on the 
water ^s edge, that Maud asked a rather 
embarrassing question. My father and 
my stepmother were walking in front of 
us, and they really did look very well to- 
gether. I could not help looking at them, 
and I suppose Maud noticed it, for sud- 
denly she said — 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 157 

Don’t you simply adore Uncle Walter 
and Aunt Jennie?” 

I was so surprised by tbe question that 
for a moment I could not think what to 
say, but then I said — 

‘ ^ Certainly, I love my father very much. ’ ’ 
The words sounded very prim and cold 
even to myself, and I am sure Maud was 
surprised. I saw her mouth pucker up, as 
if she were trying not to laugh, and her 
voice shook a little as she said — 

We all think them about the two nicest 
people in the world; we are quite crazy 
about them.” 

Crazy!” I repeated in astonishment. 
“Why are you crazy about them?” 

Maud burst out laughing ; she really has 
a very merry laugh, and there is some- 
thing contagious about it, for the first 
thing I knew I was laughing, too. 

“What is so funny?” my father in- 
quired, looking around with his kind, 
pleasant smile. 


158 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


‘‘Why/’ said Maud, recovering her 
gravity, “I told Victorine we were all 
crazy about you and Aunt Jennie, and I 
think she has an idea that I meant we were 
insane.” 

My father laughed a little, but said very 
kindly — 

“Victorine hasn’t become accustomed to 
your extravagant way of expressing things 
yet; she will get used to it in time.” And 
then he asked me to walk with him and 
my stepmother the rest of the way. 

I really enjoyed the service, although I 
could not understand very much of the 
sermon. The singing was lovely; every 
one sang, even Maud and the boys, and I 
noticed that my stepmother has a very 
sweet voice. The windows were all open, 
and we could hear the water splashing 
against the rocks. It was all very peace- 
ful and comforting. I said a little prayer 
in my heart, asking the good God to help me 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


159 


to be good and dutiful to Tante, and to let 
my father love me, and I felt happier and 
more at ease than I have felt for the past 
two days. 

On the way out of church my father and 
stepmother stopped to speak to a good 
many people, and I was introduced to some 
of them. I curtsied, and answered their 
questions as politely as I could, hut I am 
afraid I must have done something wrong, 
for I saw Maud and Charlie laughing and 
nudging each other, and I am quite sure 
they were making fun of me. 

‘‘What did I say that was wrong T’ I 
asked Maud anxiously, as soon as we were 
outside the church. 

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” said 
Maud; “you were killingly polite, that’s 
all.” 

I don’t know what “killingly polite” 
means, but judging from Maud’s tone 
when she said it, it cannot be anything 


160 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


attractive. I felt rather troubled, for I 
do want people to like me, so after a mo- 
ment I said anxiously: 

wish very much that you would have 
the great kindness to tell me what I should 
say when people ask me questions, as those 
ladies did just now.’’ 

^^Oh, don’t ask me,” said Maud laugh- 
ing. ‘‘I have never been known to say the 
right thing to any one. You just want to 
he natural, that’s all — ^not affected, you 
know. ’ ’ 

‘‘Oh, I hope I’m not affected,” I said, 
hut just then Maud caught sight of a girl 
she knows, and ran to meet her, without 
answering. But Charlie remained at my 
side, and after we had walked on for a 
minute or two in silence, he said in quite a 
serious tone for him — 

“I’ll tell you some nice little things to 
say to people when you meet them for the 
first time. ’ ’ 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


161 


‘ ‘ Oh, will you T ’ I cried. ‘ ^ That is very 
kind, and I shall be so glad.’’ I really be- 
gin to feel quite ashamed of having dis- 
liked Charlie so much, for he evidently 
has a very good heart. 

^^Well,” he said, ‘Hhere are a good many 
pretty little things that people can say 
when they want to make a good impres- 
sion. For instance, if some one asks you 
how you like America, you can say ^Oh, 
I’m as happy as a clam at high tide!’ or if 
any one tells you, as Mrs. Franklin did 
just now, that you are the image of your 
dear papa, you must look surprised, and 
say, ‘Ah, what are you giving usT Here 
comes Maud, but I’ll teach you some more 
to-morrow.” 

“Thank you very much,” I said; “it 
will be a great help.” And all the way 
home I kept saying the phrases over to 
myself, so as not to forget them. 

When we reached the house the Eliots 


162 


VIGTORINE’S BOOK 


all went in at once, and I was going to 
follow them, but my stepmother called me 
back. 

^‘Victorine dear,^^ she said, you are 
going upstairs, will you leave this parasol 
in my room? I am going into the kitchen 
for a moment to speak to the cook.’^ 

^^With pleasure, Madame,’^ I said, hold- 
ing out my hand for the parasol, for I 
always try to remember Tante’s instruc- 
tions about treating my stepmother with 
respect. I saw a strange expression come 
over my father’s face. 

‘^See here, Vic,” he said — ^he often 
calls me Vic, and I rather like it, it is such 
an intimate little name — ‘^why do you call 
your mother, Madame?” 

I stood still and my heart began to beat 
very fast. 

‘‘I thought Madame was the right ex- 
pression to use when addressing a lady,” 
I said, timidly. 

My father laughed. 



“ With pleasure, Madame,” I said. — Page 162 , 


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VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


163 


‘‘You little goose,” he said, and he put 
his arm round me, and drew me to his side. 
“Madame is quite correct in some cases, 
although it sounds rather formal to us, but 
don’t you think it would be better to call 
your mother by some other name?” 

I felt myself trembling, and my cheeks 
were very hot, but I made a great effort 
to answer firmly, as I knew Tante would 
wish me to do. 

“I am afraid I do not know of any other 
name by which to call her,” I said in a 
very low voice. 

My father was beginning to look a little 
troubled, but his voice was still very kind. 

“I don’t suppose you remember your 
own mother at all, do you, Vic?” he said. 

“No,” I answered truthfully, but added, 
remembering Tante; “I honor her memory 
greatly.” 

“That’s right,” said my father, smiling, 
and patting my shoulder, “but if you can’t 
remember your own mother at all, don’t 


164 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


you think it might be rather pleasant to 
have a mother to love? Memories are 
very precious, I know, but there are other 
things in the world as well. What do you 
think of the idea?’’ 

I don’t think I was ever quite so fright- 
ened before in my life. It took all my 
courage, and all my love and loyalty to 
Tante to enable me to answer as I knew 
she would wish to have me. 

am very sorry,” I said, and I looked 
straight at my^ father as I spoke, ‘‘but I 
can never call any one mother — ^never as 
long as I live.” 

My father frowned, and I think he was 
going to say something, but my stepmother 
stopped him with a gesture. 

“Don’t tease her, Walter,” she said. 
“Victorine shall call me anything she pre- 
fers. I am glad she is loyal to the memory 
of her own dear mother.” 

I could not help giving her a grateful 
look. I would have liked to clasp her 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


165 


hand, to show how I appreciated her kind- 
ness, hnt remembered just in time that 
Tante had forbidden all demonstrations, so 
I curtsied instead. 

‘‘Very well,^’ sai3 my father; “it’s all 
right so long as you are both satisfied, 
but the question is what name is it to be. ’ ’ 

“How would Aunt Jennie do?” sug- 
gested my stepmother. “That would 
sound quite natural, as it is what all the 
others call me.” 

“I will ask Tante,” I said; “I must do 
as she thinks best.” And then I broke 
away from my father, and ran into the 
house, for I felt sure that if I stayed there 
another minute I should begin to cry. 

Tante was in her room, and I was very 
much surprised to find Suzanne there too, 
busy packing one of the trunks. 

“Why, Tante,” I exclaimed, pausing in 
astonishment in the door-way, “where are 
we going?” 

“You are not going anywhere,” said 


166 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


Tante, shortly. ‘‘I am going to Montreal 
to visit your Uncle Victor’s cousins, the 
Perrions. I have just received a telegram 
from Madame Perrion, in answer to a let- 
ter I wrote her. Her husband is to pass 
through Portland to-morrow, and he will 
meet me there, and accompany me to Mon- 
treal. ’ ’ 

I was so astonished that for the first few 
moments I could scarcely believe the evi- 
dence of my senses. I never would have 
believed it possible that Tante would go 
away and leave me in a strange place, and 
the very thought of living without her for 
the first time since I can remember fills 
me with terror. But when I said that to 
Tante, she told me quite sharply that I was 
in my own father’s house, and was too old 
to act like a baby. 

I think my father and stepmother were 
almost as much surprised as I was when 
Tante announced her intention of going 
to Montreal to-morrow. They were all 


VICTOKINE’S BOOK 


167 


very polite, and exchanged a great many 
compliments, but I am sure that in their 
hearts they do not really like each other. 
Tante explained that she had always in- 
tended visiting these cousins in Montreal, 
but had not expected to go so soon, but she 
dreaded taking the journey alone and this 
seemed such an excellent opportunity. 
My father said he hoped she would have a 
pleasant trip, and that they would all take 
good care of me while she was away, and 
my stepmother said she must remember 
her room was always ready whenever she 
wished to return. I wonder if I only im- 
agined it or if people were really more 
cheerful than usual at dinner to-day. 

Tante and I have had a long serious talk 
this afternoon, and it has made me feel 
very sole mn and uncomfortable. She told 
me a good deal about my dear mother, how 
good and sweet she was, and how much 
she loved me, and ended by saying that she 
hoped and prayed that I would never cease 


168 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


to honor her memory, and never allow any 
one else to replace her image in my heart. 

have watched yon closely during the 
past two days, ’ ’ she said, ^ ^ and I have been 
much pleased with your manner towards 
your stepmother. It has been perfectly 
courteous, and yet not in the least familiar. 
I trust that you will continue to treat 
Madame Maitland with perfect respect 
while I am away, but never for one moment 
forget the fact that she has usurped your 
dear mother’s place.” 

^‘Yes, Tante,” I said meekly, and then, 
gathering all my courage, I added — 

‘‘My stepmother has asked me to call 
her Aunt Jennie, as the Eliots do. May I 
do so?” 

“Assuredly not,” said Tante, sternly, 
and she looked so very angry that I was 
frightened. “Madame Maitland is not 
your aunt, so why should you address her 
as if she were? I forbid you to ever ad- 


iVICTOEINE’S BOOK 


169 


dress your father’s wife by any other name 
than Madame — do you understand?” 

^‘Yes, Tante.” 

‘ ‘ Then see that you obey me, and do not 
allow yourself to be persuaded into doing 
anything of which you know I would dis- 
approve. ’ ’ 

‘‘But — ^but Tante,” I faltered, “sup- 
pose my father commands me to call my 
stepmother by some other name — what am 
I to do then?” 

Tante looked troubled for a moment, 
then she said — 

“I am afraid I cannot advise you in such 
a case. I will not ask you to disobey your 
father, but I do beg that you will remem- 
ber my wishes. I think you owe me some 
obedience. ’ ’ 

“I owe you everything, Tante,” I cried, 
bursting into tears. “You have been the 
only mother I have ever known. Indeed, 
indeed, I will always try to please you in 


170 


VIGTOEINE^S BOOK 


everything, but, oh, why must you go away 
just now when I need you so muchT’ 
There, there, my child,’’ said Tante, 
softly touching my forehead with her cool 
fingers, ‘‘don’t get so excited and nervous 
merely because I ask you to use a little 
judgment. How are you ever to grow up 
into a strong, sensible woman if you do not 
learn self-reliance? I consider that my 
leaving you here for a few weeks will be an 
excellent discipline for you. I shall hope 
to see a marked improvement in your char- 
acter on my return.” 

There is never the least use in arguing 
with Tante, and she hates to have people 
unreasonable, so I dried my eyes, and 
kissed her hand, as I always do when I am 
sorry for having worried her, and she went 
on to explain that her principal reason for 
going to Montreal was because she had 
failed to find any bond of sympathy be- 
tween my stepmother and herself. I 
wanted to ask if she did not think Madame 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


171 


Maitland liad been very polite, but was 
afraid to say any more after tbe rebuke I 
had received, and so the subject was 
dropped, and Tante has gone to lie down, 
leaving me alone in my room. 

I am very nervous, and very unhappy. 
I must always obey Tante in everything, 
of course, and yet I do love my father, and 
I want him to love me more than I have 
ever wanted anything in my life. Oh, I 
hope the good God will show me how to 
do what is right, and help me to be loyal to 
both Tante and my father I 

June Twenty-eighth. 

I am very unhappy. I have cried until 
my eyes are swollen, and I am so nervous 
that I can scarcely hold the pen ; but I 
think that if I write for a little while be- 
fore going to bed, I may grow more calm 
and be able to sleep. 

This has been the strangest day I have 
©ver passed. In the first place Tante has 


172 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


gone, and it really seems as if tlie bottom 
bad fallen out of the world. This is tbe 
first nigbt that sbe and I bave not been 
nnder tbe same roof since I was four years 
old. Sbe left tbis morning right after 
breakfast, and Suzanne went with ber. My 
father accompanied them as far as Port- 
land, where Tante was to meet Uncle Vic- 
tor’s cousin. Every one came out on tbe 
veranda to see them start, and tbe Eliots 
all said good-bye very politely, but I think 
in their hearts they were glad Tante was 
going. When it came my turn to say good- 
bye I wanted to throw my arms round 
Tante ’s neck, but was afraid sbe wouldn’t 
like it, so I kissed ber band, and murmured, 
‘^Good-bye, dear Tante,” but I could not 
keep my voice from trembling, and tbe 
tears would fill my eyes. Tante kissed me 
on both cheeks, and said, ‘‘Good-bye, my 
child; don’t be foolish, and remember to 
be a good, dutiful girl while I am away,” 


yiCTOEINE’S BOOK 173 

and then she turned to shake hands with 
my stepmother. I saw my father looking 
at me as if he were sorry about something, 
and just as he was about to get into the 
automobile, which was to take them to the 
station, he suddenly turned back, took me 
in his arms, and kissed me. 

Good-bye, little girl,” he said in Eng- 
lish. Cheer up, and don’t look as if you 
had lost your last friend. I shall he hack 
this afternoon and we are going to have 
lots of jolly times together.” 

Next moment he was gone, and I stood 
watching the automobile until it had van- 
ished in a cloud of dust. Then I turned 
and ran into the house, and up to my own 
room, where I threw myself on the bed, 
and cried till my head ached. No one came 
near me for some time, and I was glad, for 
I wanted to be alone, but at last there was 
a tap at my door, and my stepmother came 
in. 


174 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


I jumped up quickly, hoping she would 
not notice my red eyes, and asked if there 
was anything I could do for her. 

“No, dear,’’ she said, quite cheerfully, 
and as if she had not noticed anything un- 
usual about me; “I only came to ask if 
you would like to go for a motor ride with 
us this morning? I have a few errands in 
the village and thought we might take a 
little spin before dinner. Maud is going 
with me and I hoped you would like to 
come, too.” 

“I should like it very much indeed, 
thank you,” I said, and I think I must 
have looked pleased, for I do love motor- 
ing. I really think my stepmother was 
pleased, too. 

“That’s right,” she said. “The car 
will be round in a few minutes, and you 
will find us on the piazza. If you need any 
help now that Suzanne has gone, just call 
Hortense; she will be glad to do anything 
for you.” 


yiCTOEINE^S BOOK 


175 


She was turning to leave the room, but 
there was something that I knew I must say 
to her, and the sooner it was over the better. 
So I braced myself for a great effort, and 
remembered what Tante said about hop- 
ing to find my character improved when she 
comes back. 

^‘Pardon, Madame,” I said, in a very 
faint voice, ^‘but there is something I 
should like to say to you, if it is permitted.” 

My stepmother came back, and put her 
arm round my shoulders. 

‘ ‘ Say anything you like, dear, ^ ’ she said, 
with, oh, such a kind smile; ‘^nobody is 
ever afraid of Aunt Jennie.” 

‘‘It — it is about that I wish to speak,” I 
said, trying to use the most correct Eng- 
lish words I know. “lam very sorry, Ma- 
dame, but I am afraid I cannot call you 
‘Aunt Jennie.’ ” 

My stepmother gave a little start, and 
her face grew very grave. 

“Why not?” she asked gently. 


176 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


‘‘Because — please pardon me for saying 
it — ^but I am afraid it would not be loyal 
to my dear mother’s memory. I am afraid 
I must continue to call you Madame Mait- 
land.” 

She was silent for a moment, but when 
she spoke her voice was still kind, though 
rather sad. 

‘ ‘ V ery well, my dear, ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ I will 
not ask you to call me by any name that is 
distasteful to you, but I hope that some 
day you may feel differently. Now hurry 
and get on your hat ; we have a good deal 
to do this morning.” 

Then she went away, leaving me stand- 
ing alone in the middle of the room feeling 
— oh, I cannot describe how I felt, except 
that I wanted to run after her, and ask 
her forgiveness over and over again. I 
know I have pained her very much, and 
she has been so kind, but then she has 
usurped my mother’s place, and Tante 
says I must never forget that. Oh, why 


VICTOKINE’S BOOK 


177 


did the good God let my own dear mother 
die when her little girl needed her so much! 

The automobile ride was really very 
pleasant. It would have been delightful if 
only my heart had not been quite so heavy. 
My stepmother was rather silent most of 
the time, and I kept stealing glances at her 
whenever I thought she was not looking. 
There was the same sad, disappointed look 
in her eyes all the time, although she tried 
to act just as if nothing unpleasant had 
happened. Maud was in high spirits, and 
told me a good deal about her cousin, Peggy 
Lee, who is coming here on Thursday, to 
spend a month, while her married sister is 
visiting at Bar Harbor. Peggy Lee is an 
orphan, and lives with her sister in New 
Jersey. When she was little she used to 
live in California with her grandmother 
Lee, who was also grandmother to the 
Eliots, and the cousins were very intimate 
but about four years ago the grandmother 
died, and Peggy went to live with relatives 


178 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


in New Jersey. Maud thinks I will like 
Peggy, because she is ‘^just my style,’’ 
whatever that means, but after the dread- 
ful thing that happened this evening, I al- 
most wish she were not coming, for I don’t 
feel like meeting any more people than I 
can help. 

We reached home just in time for din- 
ner, and in the afternoon the Eliots all 
went fishing. They asked me to go with 
them, but I declined. It seems such a 
cruel sport to kill the poor little fish, and 
I know I should be very uncomfortable if I 
were ever to get one on my hook. As we 
were leaving the dinner table, my step- 
mother said — 

^^Eemember, children, that Mr. and Mrs. 
Dexter are coming to supper, so be sure to 
get home in good time. ’ ’ 

^^Oh, what a bother!” exclaimed Dick, 
and he made a wry face, which I thought 
very impolite. I could not help wonder- 
ing what would happen if I should say, 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 179 

* ‘ Oh, bother ! ’ ’ when Tante announced that 
guests were coming to dine. 

‘^Who are Mr. and Mrs. Dexter T’ I 
asked Maud, as we went upstairs together. 

^‘Mr. and Mrs. ‘DextaireV’ said Maud, 
laughing, and mimicking my accent, ‘‘are 
the Episcopal clergyman and his wife. 
You heard Mr. ‘Dextaire’ preach yester- 
day.’’ 

“I am sorry I did not pronounce the 
name correctly,” I said, blushing. 

Maud slipped her arm round my waist. 

“Don’t be cross, Vickey,” she said. 
“You mustn’t flare up every time we chaff 
you on your pronunciation; it’s silly, you 
know. ’ ’ 

“I don’t know what ‘flare up’ means,” 
I said indignantly, “but I am sure I did not 
mean to do it.” At which Maud burst 
out laughing, and the boys — ^who were close 
behind us — both shouted. 

I felt very uncomfortable, and a little 
angry, but tried not to let them see it, and 


180 


yiCTOEINE’S BOOK 


to show that I had not ‘^flared up,’^ I said 
as pleasantly as I could — 

‘‘I thought the old monsieur who 
preached in the church yesterday had a 
very kind face. ’ ’ 

‘^Oh, he’s kind, all right,” said Maud, 
^^but that doesn’t prevent his being a 
dreadful bore. He tells long stories with- 
out any point to them, and then expects 
every one to laugh. Mrs. Dexter is an 
awful silly; she talks to us all just as if 
we were kids.” 

I wanted to ask what ^^kids” were, but 
was afraid of being laughed at, so I went 
into my room, and wrote a long letter to 
Tante. It was the first letter I have ever 
written her in my life, and it seemed very 
strange. 

I stayed in my room all the afternoon. 
I wrote to the Delacourts after I had fin- 
ished Tante ’s letter, and then studied my 
English grammar. I am trying very hard 
not to make mistakes, for though my 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


181 


father told Tante he did not mind, I often 
see such a funny expression come over his 
face when I am speaking — it almost looks 
as if he were trying not to laugh. Once 
my stepmother came to see what I was do- 
ing, but finding me occupied, went away 
again, and later I heard her entertaining 
her guests on the veranda. 

It was nearly six o^clock when the Eliots 
returned, and they rushed upstairs to dress 
for supper, making so much noise that I 
was rather glad Tante was not here to he 
disturbed. She thinks the Eliots the 
noisiest young people she has ever met in 
her life, and says they should be severely 
reprimanded. Maud looked in to tell me 
they had brought home a quantity of fish 
for supper. Her eyes were sparkling, and 
there was such a pretty color in her cheeks 
that I felt as if I should like to kiss her, 
but she was gone again before I had made 
up my mind to do it. I cannot help liking 
Maud, even though Tante calls her a hoy- 


182 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


den ; she is so friendly, and her eyes are so 
kind. She is not in the least like that de- 
testable Charlie. 

Hortense, my stepmother ^s maid, came 
to help me dress, and I pnt on the pretty 
white frock that Tante had made for me 
just before we left home. I looked in the 
mirror before going downstairs, and, on 
the whole, I was very well satisfied with 
my appearance. Tante says it is very sin- 
ful to think of one’s personal appear- 
ance beyond the point of being neat 
and quietly dressed, but I do love pretty 
clothes, and really, though she says she is 
not interested in such things, Tante has 
excellent taste, and always dresses me very 
well. It took me some time to dress, as it 
always does, because Tante has taught me 
to be very methodical, and so I was the 
last one to enter the salon, and the guests 
had already arrived, and every one was 
waiting for supper to be announced. My 
father was there, having returned from 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


183 


Portland by the afternoon train, and I 
went to him at once, and would have kissed 
his hand, but he would not let me, and gave 
me a good hearty kiss instead, which was 
really much nicer. 

‘‘This little girl of mine isnT accus- 
tomed to all our American ways as yet,’’ 
he said to Mr. Dexter, who smiled very 
kindly, and said something about pretty 
foreign manners. Then he told me about 
Tante, and how she had met Uncle Victor’s 
cousin in Portland, and he had seen them 
both safely on board the Montreal train. 
I would have liked to ask some questions, 
but was afraid of making mistakes, so I 
sat on the sofa, with my hands folded in 
my lap, and did not speak until supper was 
announced. 

Mr. Dexter was very kind and pleasant, 
but his wife was ditferent from any other 
American I have met. She is not at all 
young, but she dresses as if she were al- 
most a girl, and wears funny little curls, 


184 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


which keep bobbing up and down all the 
time she is talking. She talks a great deal, 
and some of the things she says sound 
rather foolish. I know it is not kind to 
ridicule people, but when I looked at Mrs. 
Dexter, I really found it quite difficult to 
keep from smiling. I don^t know what 
Maud meant by the word kids’’ but she 
certainly treated the Eliots as if they were 
all quite little children. She asked Dick 
when he had last heard from ‘‘Poppa and 
Momma” — I think she meant his father 
and mother — and when she heard they had 
been fishing, she said she hoped they 
hadn’t been so naughty as to hurt the poor 
little fishes. I saw the boys winking at 
each other behind her back, and felt sure 
they were making fun of her. 

When we went into supper, I was seated 
next my father, and Mrs. Dexter was on his 
other side. Mr. Dexter sat opposite, next 
to my stepmother. No one paid any par- 


YICTORINE’S BOOK 185 

ticular attention to me for the first few 
minutes, and I was very glad, for I did not 
want to talk, but when we had all been 
helped to fresh fish — which really was de- 
licious, served with crisp fried potatoes — 
and every one had said whether or not they 
took cream and sugar in their tea, Mrs. 
Dexter suddenly leaned across my father, 
and looking straight at me, said — 

‘‘Well, little Miss Vict’rine — ’’ she pro- 
nounced my name as if it were two sylla- 
bles instead of three — “and how do you 
like America r’ 

I gave a little gasp and laid down my 
fork. I tried hard to remember what Char- 
lie had told me to say in answer to that 
question, but I could not recall the sen- 
tence ; so I grew very hot, and stammered 
faintly — 

“Very much, thank you, Madame.^’ 
“Shy,’’ said Mrs. Dexter, turning to my 
father, with a smile. “Well, a little shy- 


186 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


ness is rather to be admired in our young 
people of the present generation — eh, 
MaudieT’ 

She looked at Maud as she spoke, and 
nodded her head, with such a silly expres- 
sion that I almost laughed. But Maud 
blushed crimson, and looked rather cross. 
She and the boys had been talking rather 
loud, and I suppose she thought Mrs. Dex- 
ter was reproving her for being forward. 
Then my father — ^who is always kind to 
every one — changed the subject by saying 
something pleasant, and all went well for 
the next few minutes. But then that 
dreadful Mrs. Dexter turned to me again. 

‘‘I have been looking at you, Miss Vict’- 
rine,^’ she said, “and do you know, I think 
I should have recognized you anywhere, 
you are so like your dear Poppa 

Ever since Mrs. Dexter had asked me 
the question about America, I had been 
trying to recall those phrases of Charlie ^s, 
and just at that moment the one I was to 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


187 


use if any one said I resembled my father, 
came into my mind. I was so relieved, for 
I do not want people to think me stupid, 
and I smiled as pleasantly as I could, and 
said most politely, “Ah, what are you 
giving VLsV’ 

There was one second of dead silence, 
and then every one at the table ; the Eliots, 
Mr. and Mrs. Dexter, my stepmother — ^yes, 
even my father himself — burst into a 
shout of laughter, so loud and long that I 
am sure the neighbors must have heard it. 
I sat quite still for a moment, almost petri- 
fied with horror, staring blankly from one 
to the other. I saw them lean back in their 
chairs, and laugh till the tears ran down 
their cheeks, and I knew, oh, I knew, they 
were all laughing at me ! Then all at once 
I felt that I could not bear it another mo- 
ment, and almost before I realized what I 
was doing, I had bounded from my chair, 
and was out of the room, and flying up the 
stairs, as if pursued by fiends. 


188 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


Once in my room, with the door shut to 
keep out the sound of that dreadful 
laughter, I flung myself on the bed, and 
burying my burning face in the cool pil- 
low, burst into tears. I was crying so hard 
that I never heard the door open, and only 
came to myself when a hand was laid on 
my shoulder, and I heard my father’s kind 
voice saying — 

‘‘Why, Vic, my poor little girl, what is 
the matter?” 

He sat down on the bed, and took me in 
his arms, and I hid my head on his shoul- 
der with a sob. 

“Did I say something very terrible?” I 
whispered. 

“No, no,” he said, soothingly, “it was 
not terrible at all, but where — ^where on 
earth did you pick up that expression?” 

‘ ‘ Charlie told me to say it, ” I said. ‘ ‘ I 
asked him to teach me some phrases to use 
when people ask me questions, and he 
taught me that.” 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


189 


little scamp said my father, but 
though his voice sounded indignant, I do 
not think he was really angry. Indeed, I 
was horribly afraid he was going to laugh 
again. 

^^Will you please tell me what the words 
really mean T ’ I asked. ^ ^ I thought it was 
an idiom. ’ ’ 

^^It isn’t exactly an idiom,” my father 
explained. ^^It is merely a slang expres- 
sion. Rude boys sometimes use it, but not 
young ladies.” 

detest Charlie!” I cried indignantly, 
will never forgive him for making me 
ridiculous.” 

^^Oh, come now,” said my father, ^4sn’t 
that putting it a little too severely! Char- 
lie is a naughty boy to take advantage of 
you in that way, and I shall give him a 
lecture, but I don’t think he intended any 
real harm. You must try not to be so 
sensitive.” 

have not been accustomed to rude 


190 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


boys,’’ I said. ‘‘Tante has always taught 
me to be polite and respectful.” 

‘‘Of course she has,” said my father, 
kissing me; “you are the most polite lit- 
tle girl I have ever seen. Look here, Vic 
darling, you are really taking this too se- 
riously. Don’t you think it would be a 
good plan to dry your eyes, and come down- 
stairs? Nobody meant to be unkind, and 
we are all very sorry we laughed. ’ ’ 

But I shrank from the thought of meet- 
ing all those people again to-night, al- 
though of course I should have obeyed my 
father if he had insisted on my going down. 
He was very kind, and when he saw how 
unhappy I really was, he said I might do 
as I pleased. He kissed me again before 
he left me, and a few minutes later the 
maid brought me some supper on a tray; 
but I was too miserable to eat, and scarcely 
tasted it. 

And now it is nearly nine, and I can hear 
them all laughing and talking on the ve- 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


191 


randa. Charlie is there, I know, for I heard 
his laugh only a moment ago. Oh, I am 
sure I shall never learn to like Americans ; 
they are so different from the French. 
Imagine the Delacourts’ brother playing 
such a cruel joke ! And I was just begin- 
ning to like the Eliots, and to hope they 
might like me, too ! 

Something has just happened, which 
makes me feel a little happier. I had just 
finished writing the last sentence when I 
heard someone coming upstairs, and there 
was a knock at my door. I went to see 
who it was, and there stood Charlie, look- 
ing very red and uncomfortable. He did 
not speak for a moment, but stood first on 
one foot and then on the other, while I 
waited patiently, with the door-handle in 
my hand. At last he blurted out — 

‘‘Uncle Walter sent me up to apolo- 
gize.’’ 

I bowed in the way Tante always does 
when any one apologizes to her. “Thank 


192 VICTOEINE^S BOOK 

you/’ I said; ‘‘your excuses are ac- 
cepted. ’ ’ 

“It’s all right then, is it?” said Charlie, 
looking much relieved. 

“Yes, it is all right,” I said, and I could 
not help smiling, though I was still very 
angry. I don’t know what there is in 
Charlie’s expression that always makes 
one want to smile when one looks at him. 
“But why were you so unkind?” I added 
curiously. “Does it make you happy 
when others are miserable?” 

“Of course it doesn’t,” said Charlie, his 
face growing redder than ever. “It was 
just a joke; I never supposed you would 
really say it.” 

“But I am not accustomed to jokes,” I 
said. 

“I know you’re not; that’s just what 
makes you such fun. I’ve played much 
worse ones on Maud, and she doesn’t mind 
a bit.” 

I began to be a little ashamed of having 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 193 

minded so much, so I held out my hand to 
Charlie. 

Good-night,’^ I said; ‘Ve will not 
speak of it again.” That is what Tante 
always says to me after a lecture, but I 
don’t think Charlie was as much impressed 
as I should have been. 

Good-night,” he said. ‘^Will you tell 
Uncle Walter I apologized? He didn’t 
make me, you know ; he only said it would 
be the gentlemanly thing to do, and — and 
— I say, isn’t Uncle Walter a brick?” 

don’t know what a ‘brick’ is,” I said, 
“but I should think my father is the finest 
gentleman I have ever met, and I am very 
proud to be his daughter. ’ ’ 

Then I closed the door, and I heard Char- 
lie running downstairs again. I am sorry 
I said I detested him, for I think he must 
be a brave boy. Tante says it requires 
courage to confess a fault, and he really 
has a rather nice face when one once gets 
accustomed to his freckles. 


194 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


July Fiest. 

I will never, never again write or think 
unkind things about Charlie. I have 
found out something which makes me more 
sorry for him than I have ever felt for 
any one in my life. The poor boy has a 
terrible affliction. But I will go back and 
tell about the past three days. 

I have not written in my book since 
Monday evening ; I really have not had the 
time. I have been busy all day, and when 
night came I was really too tired to sit up. 
Every one has been very kind to me, and 
I have been much happier than I ever ex- 
pected to be before Tante went away. 

I was a little ashamed to come down to 
breakfast on Tuesday morning, after hav- 
ing rushed away from the supper table the 
night before, but no one made any allusion 
to my dreadful mistake, and they were all 
as kind and pleasant as possible. I was 
afraid my stepmother had told my father 
that I had refused to call her ‘‘Aunt Jen- 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


195 


nie,’’ but if so, he said nothing to me on the 
subject, and that was a great relief. They 
were all very busy that morning, prepar- 
ing for a picnic, and my stepmother and 
Maud were packing lunch-baskets. My 
father had promised to take us all off for 
the day in his big sailboat, and he and the 
boys were busy getting the boat ready for 
the excursion. I managed to speak to my 
father alone for a moment, however, and 
tell him that Charlie had apologized, at 
which he looked pleased, though all he said 
was, ^‘Charlie is a nice little chap; I 
thought he would.” 

We had a beautiful day on the water; I 
cannot remember when I have ever en- 
joyed myself quite so much before. The 
sea and the sky and the air were all heav- 
enly, and every one was so kind and 
friendly. My father manages the boat 
wonderfully, and we went skimming away 
over the waves in a manner that was truly 
delightful. We were quite a large party. 


196 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


for several of the young people of the 
neighborhood were invited, and I found 
all the boys and girls very agreeable. But 
the thing that surprised me most of all was 
the way in which my father and step- 
mother entered into everything, just as if 
they were young people themselves. My 
father is nearly forty, I know, and Maud 
told me her aunt is thirty-two, but they 
really did not seem much older than the 
rest of us, and nobody appeared to stand 
the least in awe of them. They all 
laughed and joked, and told amusing 
stories, and although of course, every one 
spoke English, I had no difficulty in un- 
derstanding all they said. 

We landed on one of the small islands, 
and walked to some lovely pine woods, 
where the boys built a fire, and we cooked 
lunch. Everybody was so merry, that for 
a little while I forgot Tante’s instructions 
and was rather shocked to find myself 
laughing and talking almost as much as 


yiCTOEINE^S BOOK 


197 


the others, and never even thinking about 
my English. I made one very funny mis- 
take, at which every one laughed. My 
hair was dreadfully blown about by the 
wind — which was high on the water — and 
remembering how particular Tante al- 
ways is about such things, I took out my 
comb, and tried to smooth it a little be- 
fore sitting down to eat. There was no 
mirror, of course, so I asked Maud if she 
would kindly look at me, and tell me if I 
were ‘^all right in the head.’’ Maud 
burst out laughing, and some of the others 
laughed, too, but though I was very much 
embarrassed, I tried not to show it, and 
even laughed a little myself. I saw my 
father smile at me approvingly, and I felt 
sure he was pleased. After all, it is fool- 
ish to mind when people laugh at one’s 
mistakes. I daresay it would be very 
amusing to hear people make the same mis- 
takes in French that I do in English. I 
do wish English were not quite so difficult. 


198 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


I try very hard to learn, but so many 
words that sound the same are pronounced 
so differently. I know ‘‘cough’’ is pro- 
nounced, “ CO Iff,” and so I supposed that 
“bough” must be, “boff,” but when I said 
something about “the bofe of the trees” 
I saw my father biting his mustache, and 
trying so hard not to laugh, that I knew 
I had made a mistake. Afterward he ex- 
plained to me that that word is pro- 
nounced “bow,” which certainly did seem 
very strange and confusing. But to go 
back to the picnic. 

That was a delightful day, and yester- 
day was almost as pleasant. We went for 
a long motor ride in the morning, and in 
the afternoon some girl friends of Maud’s 
came to see her, and we all played tennis. 
I was going to refuse to play at first, but 
Maud said, “Don’t be a goose, Vic,” and 
as I did not want to be a goose, I changed 
my mind, and in the end beat Maud and 
one of her friends. I have played tennis 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


199 


a good deal with the Delacourts, and I 
don’t think I play a bad game. Maud told 
me afterward that she had no idea I was 
such a sport.” I don’t know exactly 
what ^^a sport” is, but from the way Maud 
said it, I am sure she must have meant 
something complimentary. 

The Eliots’ cousin, Peggy Lee, arrived 
this afternoon, and my father and step- 
mother went to meet her in Portland, 
where her sister and brother-in-law left 
her on their way to Bar Harbor. They 
went to Portland in the automobile, and 
Maud and Dick went with them. We were 
all invited to go, as the car is very large, 
but Charlie said he would rather go fish- 
ing, and I thought it would be a good op- 
portunity to study English and write in 
my book. They started right after din- 
ner, and I took my English phrase-book 
and grammar to the piazza, and settled 
myself in the hammock for a comfortable 
time. 


200 


yiCTOEINE^S BOOK 


I really studied hard for more than an 
hour, and was just thinking I would go 
upstairs and write in my book, when Char- 
lie appeared. It seems, he could not go 
fishing after all, because the boys he was 
going with were obliged to stay at home 
and do some work for their father, and he 
did not care to go alone. He was rather 
cross about it, and seating himself on the 
veranda railing, began kicking the paint 
in a- way that I was sure his aunt would 
not like. I watched him for a few mo- 
ments in silence; then I remonstrated. 

would not do that if I were you,” I 
said; ^‘your boots will make ugly marks 
on the paint, and it will look very untidy. ’ ’ 
^‘What a fussy Miss Nancy you are,” 
said Charlie, and I saw the teasing look 
coming into his face. say, what 
would happen if you kicked the paint off 
your aunt’s piazza?” 

do not know, I am sure. I cannot 
imagine doing such a foolish thing.” 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


201 


‘‘Would she punish youT’ Charlie went 
on, without appearing to notice my reply. 

“I should certainly be reprimanded, but 
as I said before, I cannot imagine the pos- 
sibility of doing such a foolish thing.’’ 

“Don’t you ever do anything foolish?” 
inquired Charlie. 

“Oh, yes, a great many things,” I said 
laughing, “but I cannot imagine doing 
that particular thing.” 

“Your aunt’s a tartar, isn’t she? I’m 
glad she isn’t any relation of ours.” 

I felt my cheeks getting hot, and I an- 
swered indignantly — 

“My aunt is a very charming lady, and 
you ought to be ashamed to speak so dis- 
respectfully of her.” 

I thought he would be angry, but he only 
grinned. 

“I don’t suppose you ever said anything 
disrespectful in your life, did you?” he 
said in a tone as if he really wanted to 
know. 


202 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


I was going to say, ‘‘Certainly not,^^ but 
remembered just in time that might sound 
like boasting, so I said, “I do not know,’’ 
instead. 

“What would your aunt do to you if 
you called her a prim old maid?” was 
Charlie’s next question. 

That was really too much. I felt sure 
Charlie was ridiculing Tante, and of 
course my loyalty would not permit my 
listening to that. I said nothing, but 
gathered up my books, and prepared to go 
into the house. 

“Now you’re mad,” said Charlie, 
crossly. “I never saw a girl get mad as 
easily as you do.” 

“I am not mad,” I protested, for I have 
discovered that “mad” is another word 
for “angry” — “but I cannot stay here 
and listen to disrespectful things about 
Tante. She has been like my mother, and 
I love her better than any one in the 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


203 


world.’’ In spite of all my efforts to be 
calm, my voice would tremble a little. 

^‘Well, come back, and I won’t say an- 
other word about her,” promised Charlie. 
^ ‘Let’s go for a sail; there’s a first-rate 
breeze.” 

I hesitated. I thought of Tante’s prej- 
udice against sailboats, but it was such a 
beautiful afternoon, and I do love being 
on the water. Besides, it was kind of 
Charlie to invite me, and I wanted to show 
him that I bore him no ill will for the other 
night. 

“Are you sure it is quite safe?” I asked 
doubtfully, to which Charlie replied with 
one of his queer American idioms. 

“Safe, your grandmother! Of course 
it’s safe. I’ve sailed a boat ever since I 
was ten, and we never go outside the har- 
bor.” 

Well, I yielded to Charlie’s persuasions, 
and really had a very pleasant afternoon. 


204 


yiCTOEINE^S BOOK 


I hope Tante will not think I did wrong 
when I write her about it. I have prom- 
ised to write her about everything I do. 
It was beautiful on the water, and Charlie 
was more agreeable than I had any idea 
he could be. The boat belongs to Dick and 
himself, and is very comfortable, though 
it is, of course, much smaller than my 
father’s boat. Charlie really does man- 
age a boat very well indeed, and after the 
first few minutes I quite ceased to be 
afraid. I soon found myself talking more 
freely than I have done since I left the 
Delacourts, but then no one could possibly 
feel shy with Charlie.* We talked on many 
things, and he told me of his home in Cal- 
ifornia — ^which must be very beautiful — 
and of the pleasant times they all have 
there. I am afraid some of his stories 
about the things they do would shock 
Tante, but I could not help laughing, they 
were so amusing. They each have a pony. 


yiCTOEINE’S BOOK 


205 


and are very fond of riding. They have 
even received prizes for their skill in rid- 
ing, of which Charlie seems very proud. 
I tried to entertain him by telling him 
about Nice and Miss Merton, and the Del- 
acourts, but I am afraid he was not as 
much interested in my stories as I was in 
his. I must not forget to mention one in- 
teresting thing that happened. We sailed 
all round the harbor, which is really quite 
large, and on the way home passed a little 
island with a house on it. Most of the is- 
lands are covered with pine woods and are 
very wild and picturesque, but this is the 
first one I have seen which appeared to 
be inhabited. There was smoke coming 
out of the chimney, which seemed to sur- 
prise Charlie, for he said it had been 
empty all last summer, and he wondered 
who could be living in such an out-of-the- 
way place. I said I thought it must be 
like living on a desert island, and he said 


206 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


if the people did not have a boat it would 
he just about as bad, as there would be no 
way of reaching the mainland. 

wonder why any one ever built a 
house there, I said, and Charlie told me 
that he believed it was originally owned 
by a very eccentric old man — Charlie called 
him crazy, but I have discovered that 
crazy is used to express a good many dif- 
ferent things in America — ^who objected 
to neighbors, and who used to go to the 
village for provisions, and bring them back 
in his boat. 

As we drew near the island, we saw that 
there were people on the shore, and Char- 
lie brought the boat as near as he could, 
for we were both curious to see them. 
They appeared to be a family party, for 
a young man was sketching on the rocks, 
and a little girl and boy were playing in 
the sand. The children seemed interested 
in our boat, and stopped their play to look 
at us, and what was my surprise to recog- 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


207 


nize OTir little friends of the train, Angele 
and Paul. I nodded to them, and waved 
my handkerchief, and I think they recog- 
nized me, too, for they smiled and shouted 
something, which we were too far otf to 
hear. Their father also paused in his 
sketching to look at us, and I told Charlie 
about our meeting on the Bar Harbor ex- 
press, and how kind Tante was to little 
Angele. I don’t think he was very much 
interested, for he looked as if he were 
thinking of something else, and it was soon 
after that he told me the sad thing which 
has made me so very sorry for him. 

We were still some distance from the 
landing, and I was telling him about Eose 
Delacourt, and how anxious she is to be- 
come a nun, when he suddenly put his hand 
up to his forehead, and began to look wor- 
ried. 

‘Hs anything wrong?” I asked, anx- 
iously. 

‘^Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Charlie. 


208 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


feeling a little queer, but I don’t be- 
lieve it’s going to be anything.” 

it your head that is paining you?” 
I asked, for it seemed strange that any one 
should be taken ill so suddenly. 

‘‘No,” said Charlie, “not exactly. I 
feel a little as if I might be going to have 
one, but I don’t believe I really am.” 

“One what?” I inquired, beginning to 
feel a little frightened. 

“I don’t believe I’d better tell you; you 
might be scared, and besides mother 
doesn’t like to have it talked about.” 

“But if you do not tell me,” I protested, 
“how should I know what to do if it hap- 
pened?” 

“You couldn’t do anything,” said Char- 
lie. “You’d just have to sit still and let 
the boat drift till I came round again. I 
don’t suppose you know how to sail a boat 
yourself?” 

“Oh, no,” I said, “I could not possibly 
do such a thing. Please tell me what it is. 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 209 

Charlie — ^what are you afraid you are go- 
ing to haver’ 

Charlie came close to me, and whispered 
in my ear. ‘‘A fit,” he said. 

A fit!” I repeated, with a little scream; 
‘^you mean a convulsion?” 

Charlie nodded. 

‘^You mustn’t ever let any one know I 
told you,” he said. ^‘You see, it’s a very 
painful subject, and the family don’t like 
to have it mentioned. I only thought I 
ought to warn you in case I should have 
one some time when we are alone together. 
You mustn’t be too much scared; I shall 
be sure to come out all right, I always do. ’ ’ 

I was really too horrified to speak. 
How could Charlie sit there and talk in 
such a calm way of so terrible an afflic- 
tion? He was even smiling, and I sud- 
denly realized that he must be a very brave 
boy. I never felt quite so sorry for any 
one before, and involuntarily I put out my 
hand to him. 


210 


VICTOBINE’S BOOK 


‘^Oh, Charlie,” I said, and I know there 
were tears in my eyes, am so very 
sorry ! It was noble of yon to tell me, and 
I shall always respect your confidence.” 

Charlie evidently does not like to be 
praised. He grew quite crimson, and 
pulled away his hand. 

Shucks!” he said. That is an expres- 
sion I have often heard both the Eliot 
boys use, and I do not think it at all pretty, 
though I have no idea what it means. 

We were both very quiet, after that. 
Indeed, Charlie never said another word 
all the way home. He kept looking at me 
every few minutes, and I could see by 
his expression that he was very much 
ashamed. I suppose the poor boy feels 
his affliction more than he cares to admit, 
and of course it must be a terrible trial to 
him. I kept wondering what would hap- 
pen if he were really to have a convulsion 
before we reached home ; I hoped I should 
not die of fright, but the thought was very 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


211 


terrible, and I heaved a great sigh of relief 
and thankfulness when Charlie brought the 
boat up to the landing in safety. Neither 
of us has mentioned the painful subject 
again, but I shall never forget that Charlie 
has honored me with his confidence. I 
must try and be very gentle and patient 
with him, and help him to bear his sorrow 
if I can. I wonder how the others, even 
my father and stepmother, can treat him 
just as if he were like ordinary people. 
If I had a brother with such a sad afflic- 
tion, I am sure I should never treat him as 
Maud treats poor Charlie. I should love 
him with my whole soul, and try so hard 
to be good to him and make him happy. 

The family had reached home before 
us and we found them all on the veranda. 
I was introduced to Peggy Lee, and I am 
sure I shall like her in spite of her ugly 
name. She is just as friendly as Maud, 
but much gentler, and she has such a sweet 
face that I like to watch her when she 


212 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


talks. All the Eliots seem very fond of 
her, and during supper they talked a great 
deal about old times in California. My 
father looked pleased when he heard Char- 
lie and I had spent the afternoon together, 
and this evening he came up to me on the 
veranda, where I was watching the beau- 
tiful sunset, and put his arm round my 
waist. 

^‘How are you getting on, Vic I” he 
asked, looking down at me, with a mis- 
chievous twinkle in his eyes. ‘‘Not fret- 
ting for Tante, ehV’ 

“I miss dear Tante very much,” I said 
eagerly, “hut every one has been so kind.” 

My father smiled and patted my shoul- 
der. 

“That’s right,” he said; “I’m glad you 
are beginning to like us a little. I am 
afraid our American ways shocked Tante 
very much. ’ ’ 

I felt myself blushing, and dropped my 
eyes. 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


213 


‘I thought so/^ said my father, laugh- 
ing, ‘^but perhaps even Tante may become 
accustomed to us in time. As for you, lit- 
tle girl, your mother and I both want you 
to be very happy with us.’^ 

His arm tightened about me as he spoke, 
and there was a sad, almost anxious ex- 
pression on his face, but I wish he had not 
spoken of Madame Maitland as my mother. 

miss Tante very much,’’ I said again, 
and I am afraid my voice sounded very 
stitf and prim. hope she will have a 
pleasant time in Montreal.” 

‘‘You are a loyal little soul, Vic,” said 
my father, and then he went to join my 
stepmother — who had just come out — and 
they walked away down to the beach to- 
gether. 

I do miss Tante, of course, and I am 
glad I told my father so, hut I am begin- 
ning to like America very much, and I do 
hope Tante will not want to go home be- 
fore the autumn. 


214 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


July Fifteenth. 

I am afraid my book has been sadly 
neglected lately. I see by the date that 
it is two whole weeks since I have written 
a word in it. It is not that I am less in- 
terested than I was at first, bnt the days 
slip by so fast that there never seems time 
to do anything in the way of writing, ex- 
cept my letters to Tante. I send her a 
few lines every day, and she has written to 
me very often. I have kept all her letters, 
and read them over each night just before 
I go to bed. They are such beautiful let- 
ters, so full of good advice and admoni- 
tions. I wish she would tell me a little 
more about Montreal, and what she is do- 
ing there, but I do not suppose she has 
time for that. I try to remember to tell 
her about everything I do, but I do not 
think she is much interested in frivolous 
things, and I am afraid we have all been 
very frivolous here. 

Oh, I hope that I am not disloyal to 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


215 


Tante! I pray that I am not. Indeed, I 
do try to please her, and not to do anything 
of which she would disapprove, but I am 
having snch a beantifnl, wonderful time — 
I did not know it was possible for people 
to have such good times. Every day some- 
thing pleasant happens, and every day I 
grow more fond of them all. Peggy Lee 
is charming, and I like her better than any 
girl I have ever known. I think she likes 
me, too, and I feel sure Tante would ap- 
prove of her, she is so sweet and gentle. 
She is helping me a great deal with my 
English, and they all tell me I do not make 
nearly so many mistakes as I did at first. 
I told Peggy about the dreadful things 
Charlie taught me to say, and she seemed 
to think them very amusing, and laughed 
till the tears ran down her cheeks; but 
somehow I did not mind in the least, and 
before I knew it I found myself laughing, 
too. She says Charlie has always been a 
dreadful tease, but she seems very fond of 


216 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


him, notwithstanding. Poor Charlie, my 
heart aches for him whenever I think of 
his terrible affliction! I am trying to be 
as kind to him as I possibly can. No one 
else appears to pay any particular atten- 
tion to him, and I cannot quite understand 
such indifference, especially in my step- 
mother, who is so kind to every one. I 
suppose it must be because they are all so 
accustomed to him that they forget. He 
has not had one of those terrible convul- 
sions since I came here and he has never 
mentioned the subject again, but I have 
tried to show him by my manner that I re- 
member and understand. Sometimes I 
think he likes me, but at others he is very 
cross, and he often grows so red when I 
offer to do little things for him, that I sup- 
pose he is afraid the others will notice. I 
do not suppose afflicted people ever like to 
attract attention. 

Maud and I are very good friends now, 
and I really think they are all beginning 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


217 


to like me more than they did at first. 
Dick complimented me the other day by 
telling me I played a very good game of 
tennis, and Hand said she had no idea I 
could be so jolly. Indeed I did not know it 
myself, and I only hope Tante will ap- 
prove, and not think I talk too much or 
laugh too loud. When I am having a good 
time I am afraid I sometimes forget her 
instructions, and then when I remember 
them afterward I am very uncomfortable 
for I would not intentionally disobey her 
for the world. 

If it were not for one thing I should be 
perfectly happy even with Tante away, 
but there is something which troubles me 
very much, and the trouble grows worse 
instead of better as the days go on. My 
father was obliged to go to New York 
about ten days ago, to attend to some bus- 
iness, but he is coming back the end of 
next week. The evening before he left 
he took me for a walk, and talked to me so 


218 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


very kindly that I longed to put my head 
down on his shoulder and cry. He spoke 
heantifnlly of Tante, and told me I must 
never forget all she has done for me, and 
for him, too, because there had been no 
one else to take care of me after my mother 
died. Then he spoke of my stepmother. 
He did not ask me again to call her mother, 
or even Aunt Jennie, but he told me how 
good and unselfish she is, and how much 
she wants me to love her. He said he was 
leaving me in her care, and he knew I 
would obey her and try to please her while 
he was away. Of course I promised to do 
anything he wished, and then he kissed me, 
and we talked of other things. The next 
morning he went away. 

All the Eliots are devoted to their aunt, 
and Peggy Lee is very fond of her, too, 
though she is no relation, for the Eliots^ 
mother is her father ^s sister, and my step- 
mother is the sister of Mr. Eliot. I really 
do not wonder they all love her so much. 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


219 


for she is the kindest person I have ever 
met. Rose Delaconrt says the nuns are 
saints, who have given np their lives to 
God. My stepmother is not in the least 
like a nnn, but I really think she is some- 
thing of a saint, too. Nothing ever seems 
a trouble to her, and she is always doing 
something to give pleasure. Peggy told 
me she used to live with the Eliots, when 
the children were little, before she married 
my father, and they were almost as fond 
of her as of their own mother. Oh, if only 
she were not my stepmother how I should 
love her, hut I suppose it would be very 
wicked and disloyal to love the woman who 
has taken my own mother’s place! 

I had a very bad headache yesterday. 
It was a very warm day, and I suppose I 
played tennis too long in the sun. I felt 
badly, but did not say anything about it, 
because I wanted to go motoring in the 
afternoon, but I could not eat much dinner, 
and my stepmother noticed that I was 


220 


yiCTOEINE^S BOOK 


looking pale, and asked me what the mat- 
ter was. I had to tell her the truth, and 
she was very kind. She advised me not 
to go motoring, and indeed my head grew 
so much worse after dinner that I did not 
feel like going myself. I went up to my 
room to lie down, and in a few minutes 
there was a knock at my door, and there 
stood my stepmother, with somethmg in a 
glass, which she said she was sure would 
make my head better. She did not go 
away after I had taken the medicine — 
which tasted like soda water, and was very 
cold and refreshing — but stayed to close 
the blinds, and drive away the flies, and 
then she brought a cool, wet cloth, and laid 
it on my forehead. 

‘‘Close your eyes, and try to sleep for a 
little while, dear,’’ she said. “It is very 
warm. Wouldn’t you like to have me stay 
and fan you till you fall asleep?” 

I murmured something about not wish- 
ing to trouble her, but she did not seem to 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


221 


hear. She drew a chair to the bed-side, 
and began fanning me gently. It was 
very pleasant, bnt I could not go to sleep, 
and after a while she took away the wet 
cloth — which had grown warm and un- 
comfortable — and stroked my forehead 
with her soft, cool fingers. It was such a 
loving touch, just as I think my real 
mother might have done it. I had to keep 
thinking very hard of Tante, to prevent 
taking her hand and kissing it, and at last 
my heart grew so full of love and longing, 
that I found the tears splashing down my 
cheeks. She noticed the tears, though I 
tried to hide them, and asked me if the 
pain were very bad. 

‘^No, thank you, Madame,’’ I said, 
truthfully; ^Hhe pain is much better.” 

She said nothing for a moment, and then 
she bent and kissed me. 

^‘Poor little Victorine,” she said in 
French — she does speak beautiful French 
— ‘‘I think I understand. We are all 


222 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


homesick sometimes, and I know we 
must seem a little like strangers to you 
even yet, but Tante will be back before 
long, and in the meantime can’t you try to 
love us a little?” 

‘^Oh, I do, I do!” I cried impulsively, 
and then checked myself with an effort 
and buried my face in the pillow, with a 
sob. I am very much afraid I said some- 
thing that would displease Tante, but, oh, 
I was so lonely, and it was so beautiful to 
be loved and petted ! 

My stepmother did not ask me any more 
questions, but kissed me again, and in a 
few minutes after that the maid came to 
tell her a visitor was waiting to see her, 
and she went away, leaving me to rest for 
the afternoon. 

To-day is the anniversary of my own 
dear mother’s death. I am afraid I might 
have forgotten it if I had not received a 
letter from Tante this morning. Tante is 
always so particular about observing an- 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


223 


niversaries ; I do not believe sbe has ever 
forgotten one in her life. She spoke very 
lovingly of my mother, and said she hoped 
I would remember to keep her anniver- 
sary, as I always do at home, and not in- 
dulge in any frivolous amusements on this 
day. That letter made me feel very sol- 
emn, and I suppose I must have shown it 
in my face, for Charlie asked me what was 
the matter. 

‘^Nothing is the matter,” I said, putting 
the letter into my pocket. “Tante is quite 
well.” 

‘‘Oh,” said Charlie, “I was afraid she 
might be coming back, and that was what 
made you look so glum. ’ ’ 

I do not think “glum” is a pretty word, 
although I believe it only means ^Hriste/' 
and it was not kind of Charlie to speak in 
that disrespectful way of Tante. I was 
just going to say something quite sharp 
to him when I remembered his affliction, 
and before I could think of any pleasant 


224 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


remark to make, Peggy — who is always 
kind, and hates to have people uncomfort- 
able — said quickly — 

Don’t be a tease, Charlie. Don’t yon 
want to walk to the post-office with me, 
Victorine? I told Aunt Jennie I would go 
for the mail.” 

I was glad to go with Peggy, for I 
wanted to ask her opinion about what I 
should do. I knew a picnic had been ar- 
ranged for this afternoon. We were to 
sail over to one of the islands, have sup- 
per there, and come home by moonlight. 
I had been looking forward to it, but was 
afraid I ought to give it up on account of 
the anniversary. So as soon as Peggy and 
I were out of hearing of the others, I 
said — 

‘‘I am very sorry, but I am afraid I 
shall not be able to go to the picnic to-day. ’ ’ 

‘‘Oh, why not?” inquired Peggy, look- 
ing really sorry; “does your head still 
ache?” 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


225 


I said, beginning to feel a little 
embarrassed, bead is quite well, 

thank you, but I have had a letter from 
Tante, and she reminds me that to-day is 
the anniversary of my dear mother’s 
death.” 

“Oh,” said Peggy, kindly, and she 
slipped her hand into mine. “But I 
thought you told us you couldn’t remember 
your mother ? ’ ’ she added, looking puzzled. 

“I cannot remember her,” I said, “but 
Tante is always very particular about ob- 
serving anniversaries. I do not think she 
would wish me to go to a picnic to-day. ’ ’ 
“Why, I never heard of such a thing!” 
said Peggy, and she really did look very 
much surprised, but then, seeing my em- 
barrassment, she hastened to add kindly — 
^ ^ Of course you must do what you think 
right, but I really can’t see any reason 
why you should stay at home from the pic- 
nic, and we should all miss you very 
much.” 


226 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


I said, Thank you,’’ and we walked on 
in silence for a few minutes. Then Peggy 
said slowly, and as if she had been think- 
ing hard — 

‘‘Victprine, will you mind if I say some- 
thing?” 

‘^Not at all,” I answered. ‘‘Indeed, I 
want your advice very much.” 

“Well,” she said, “I have been thinking. 
You see, my mother died when I was a very 
little girl. She and my father were both 
drowned, and I can’t remember them at 
all. Do you suppose that if the people 
who are dead knew, they would want to 
feel that we were making ourselves un- 
happy about them?” 

‘ ‘ I don ’t know, ’ ’ I said ; “ I never thought 
of that.” 

“I have thought of it often,” said 
Peggy. “I lived with my grandmother 
for a long time after my parents were 
drowned, and she used to talk to me about 
them. She did not think it right to mourn 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


227 


for the people we have lost. She said she 
was sure heaven was a much more beauti- 
ful place than this, and if our friends were 
happy there, it was wrong for us to grieve 
for them. She said it would make her 
very unhappy if she thought people were 
going to fret and be too sorrowful when 
she was dead, and she wanted us all to go 
on having good times, just as if she were 
here, and when we thought of her, to re- 
member only the bright, pleasant things 
about her, and never to think of her as in 
the grave, but always as in some beautiful 
place where she was happy with my father 
— ^who was her only son — and all the other 
dear ones she had lost. I wonder if your 
mother would not have said the same 
things to you if you had been old enough 
to understand r’ 

‘‘You mean you think my mother would 
not like to have me stay at home from the 
picnic if she knew, because this is her an- 
niversary T’ I said. I was very much in- 


228 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


terested in Peggy’s theory. It was cer- 
tainly very different from anything Tante 
has ever tanght me. 

am sure she wouldn’t,” said Peggy, 
in a tone of conviction. ^ ^No mother would 
deprive her children of having a good time 
if she could help it. I am sure she would 
rather think of you enjoying the picnic 
than staying at home by yourself, just be- 
cause this happens to be the anniversary 
of the day she went to heaven.” 

Peggy is a very practical girl— I never 
knew any one quite like her before — ^but 
I do believe there may be a great deal of 
truth in her ideas. If it had not been for 
the fear of displeasing Tante, I think I 
would have gone to the picnic. I ex- 
plained my reasons to Peggy, and she 
seemed to understand, and did not urge 
me any more. I asked her if she would 
mind telling my stepmother, as I was afraid 
it would be awkward to explain to her and 
she said she would do it, and was sure 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


229 


everything would be all right. We were 
both rather silent during the rest of the 
walk, for I was thinking very deeply. 0 
dear I I wish it were not quite so difficult 
to please everybody and that people 
thought a little more alike about things. 

I think Peggy must have explained 
matters as soon as we reached home, for 
no one said a word to me on the subject of 
the picnic, not even Charlie, for which I 
was very grateful. My stepmother treated 
me j'ust as usual and before they started, 
she came up to me and kissed me. 

‘‘I hope you won’t be lonely, dear,” she 
said. ‘‘We shall be back early and I have 
told Katie to give you a good supper.” 

So here I am, spending a solitary after- 
noon in the house, while all the others are 
enj*oying themselves at the picnic. I won- 
der if Peggy is right, but if she is, then 
Tante must be wrong. I do not like to 
think Tante could make a mistake, and yet 
I cannot help feeling that if I were dead I 


230 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


should be very sorry to know that some 
one I loved was staying at home from a 
picnic just because it happened to be the 
anniversary of mydeath. I am sure mother 
would wish me to be happy, but then she 
would also wish me to respect and obey 
Tante. I wonder if it might not be possi- 
ble that she would wish my father to be 
happy, too, and in that case — but I must 
not write such thoughts ; I am afraid they 
are disloyal to Tante and the things she 
has taught me all my life. I think I will 
stop writing now, and read ‘‘An Old Fash- 
ioned Girl’^ instead. That is an English 
book that my stepmother gave me, and it is 
almost as interesting as “The Story of 
Colette.’’ 


July Twenty-thikd. 

Tante and my father are both coming 
home to-morrow. I am very happy at the 
thought of seeing Tante again so soon. I 
do hope she will not think I have grown 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


231 


frivolous during her absence. After all 
the time has not seemed long since she went 
away. She says her friends in Montreal 
wanted her to stay another week, but she 
feels that she has left me alone long 
enough. I wonder if that means that she 
is tired of America, and anxious to get 
home. I sometimes wonder how it will 
seem to go back to the quiet life of the villa 
after all this gayety. I know I must be 
ready to go when she is, and I must not let 
her suspect that it will be hard to give up 
all the pleasures I have had this summer. 
I think I am growing more fond of Amer- 
ica and the Americans every day. Dear 
Tante, she is so good, and I owe her so 
much; I must never let her think me un- 
grateful even for a moment! But there 
is something else of which I am more 
afraid of her discovering even than that I 
do not want to go back to Nice, and that is 
about my stepmother. Oh, I am afraid I 
have been very disloyal to my mother’s 


232 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


memory, but I cannot help it! I have 
struggled hard against the feeling, but my 
stepmother is so good and dear, and every 
day it has grown stronger, until now there 
is no use in trying to resist any longer. I 
love her, yes, I do ; I love her better than 
any one I have ever known except Tante 
herself. I think I even love her better 
than my father. Of course I must not let 
her suspect, but, oh, it is hard to keep up 
the respectful manner Tante approves ! I 
hate to say ^^Yes, Madame,” and Thank 
you, Madame,” when all the time I am 
longing to ask her pardon, and beg her to 
allow me to call her Mother. I do call her 
Mother sometimes in my thoughts, and it 
is very sweet. If only I could feel sure 
that my own mother would not be grieved 
if she knew. If Peggy is right, then she 
would not be displeased, for she would 
want me to be happy, and I can never be 
quite happy as long as I go on treating my 
stepmother as a formal stranger. It is all 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


233 


very puzzling, and I pray to the good God 
every day to show me what is right. Per- 
haps when Tante comes back, and I am 
with her again, as I used to be, my duty 
will seem clearer, and I shall not be so un- 
comfortable. 

But in spite of the difficulty about my 
stepmother, I have had a glorious time. 
What with tennis, sailing and motor rides, 
the days have simply flown, and I have en- 
joyed every moment. I am no longer shy, 
even with strangers, and I talk English 
from morning till night. I have begun to 
laugh at my own mistakes, some of which 
must really have been very amusing. Mr. 
and Mrs. Dexter were here to supper again 
the other evening. I thought I should be 
embarrassed, but somehow I was not, and 
when Mr. Dexter said, with a twinkle in 
his eye, ^ ‘ How are the English idioms com- 
ing on. Miss VictorineT’ I laughed, and 
told him that I had a more reliable teacher 
now, and hoped I was improving. Mrs. 


234 


yiCTOEINE’S BOOK 


Dexter was as funny as ever, and called 
me ‘‘Miss Vict’rine,’’ and Maud, 
“Maudie,’’ but she is really a very good 
woman, my stepmother says, and does a 
great deal for the poor people in the 
village, so I suppose it is wrong to laugh 
at her little ways. 

I have found out that those phrases 
Charlie taught me were not idioms at all, 
but dreadful slang and not the proper con- 
versation for ladies. Dick and Charlie 
both use a great deal of slang, and even 
Maud and Peggy use a little, but my step- 
mother never does. 

I am really growing quite fond of Char- 
lie. I think it began by my being so sorry 
for his affliction. He is much kinder than 
he was at first, and scarcely ever teases 
me now. We go about together a good 
deal, for he is not as much of a favorite as 
Dick, and he is always very kind and polite. 
I think sometimes that he wishes he had 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


235 


not told me of his aflSiction, for I see a 
queer expression in his eyes when he thinks 
I am not looking at him, and it almost 
seems as if he were ashamed. Poor, dear 
Charlie, my heart does ache for him! It 
must be terrible to bear such a burden as 
his I No one has ever mentioned his trou- 
ble to me, and of course I have never re- 
ferred to it myself, but I cannot help won- 
dering how Maud can be so cross and im- 
patient with him as she often is. Even 
Peggy does not seem to realize how he suf- 
fers, which is strange, because she is so 
kind and thoughtful for every one. 

It made me very nervous to go about 
alone with Charlie at first — I was so afraid 
he might have one of those horrible con- 
vulsions — but I tried hard to overcome my 
fear, so that now I am not nearly so much 
afraid. He is so merry most of the time 
that it is hard to realize how much he suf- 
fers, but that only proves what a brave 


236 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


spirit he has. I am glad I had that one 
little glimpse into his heart, for it has 
taught me not to judge too hastily. 

Something quite interesting happened 
this morning. I have seen that dear little 
French woman again, and think her even 
prettier than before. I wrote Tante about 
seeing the children and their father on that 
little island and she seemed more inter- 
ested than I supposed she would be, and 
asked me to find out something more about 
the family if I could. She said the face of 
that little suffering child haunted her, and 
she would be so glad to help the mother in 
some way. I asked my stepmother, but 
she did not know anything about them, and 
said a good many artists come here in 
summer to paint; the scenery is so beau- 
tiful. I was alone on the piazza this morn- 
ing, reading; Peggy and Maud had gone 
to call on some friends, and the boys Were 
fishing. I was interested in my book, and 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 237 

did not hear any one approaching till a 
voice spoke close at my side. 

beg yonr pardon, Mademoiselle,” it 
said, ^^but would you perhaps he inter- 
ested to look at some lace?” 

The words were English, but the accent 
was French, and I looked up from my 
book, to find that pretty little woman 
standing beside me, with a large, heavy 
bag on her arm. She recognized me at the 
same moment that I recognized her, and 
we both began talking French quite nat- 
urally. It was the first time I had spoken 
French since Tante went away, and it 
made me feel quite intimate with her at 
once. She seemed glad to talk in her own 
language, too, and we were chatting away 
quite like old friends, when my stepmother 
came out. I told Madame Maitland about 
our meeting on the train and about the 
dear little children, and she was kind and 
courteous, as she always is, and asked the 


238 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


woman to sit down and rest, for she did 
look very tired, and no wonder, for it is no 
light task to carry that heavy bag. Then 
the woman blushed very prettily, and 
asked my stepmother if she might show 
her some lace she had to sell. She did not 
speak like a professional peddler, and I 
felt sure it must be very painful to her to 
be obliged to go about like that, but . my 
stepmother was just as polite to her as she 
would have been to a visitor. She said 
she would like very much to see the lace, 
and the woman opened her bag, and took 
out some pieces that were really beautiful. 
We were both much interested, and my 
stepmother praised the work highly, and 
asked if she had done it herself. 

‘‘Oh, yes, Madame,’’ said the little 
woman, blushing with pleasure, “I do 
much work.” 

My stepmother asked her if she had 
tried selling her work at the shops, and 



“You HAVE GIVEN ME SUCH ENCOURAGEMENT, MADAME.” — Page 2S9 








VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


239 


she replied that she had often tried but 
with little success. 

^^Our home is in New York,’’ she added, 
‘^and the New York shops are so big and 
so crowded. I have earned a little money 
but not much.” 

Then my stepmother examined the lace 
more carefully, and ended by buying sev- 
eral lovely things, which seemed to please 
the little woman very much. 

^‘You have given me such encourage- 
ment, Madame,” she said, and there were 
tears in her eyes. ‘Mt is not easy to go 
about from house to house, and the people 
are so indifferent. I never did this before, 
but my husband was ill in the winter, which 
prevented him from working as much as 
usual, and now my little girl is not 
well. ’ ’ 

‘^How is little Angele?” I asked. 

‘‘A little stronger, thank you,” she an- 
swered, ‘‘but the poor child suffers greatly; 


240 VICTOEINE’S BOOK 

we fear an operation may be neces- 
sary.’’ 

Then I told her how I had seen the chil- 
dren on the island, and she said they had 
taken the little house for the summer, be- 
cause it was very cheap, and the air had 
been recommended for both her husband 
and little girl. 

^^An old fisherman kindly allows us the 
use of his boat,” she added, ‘‘and in that 
way we have no difficulty in getting what 
we need from the village. We love the 
place, and my husband has done some fine 
work here.” 

Then she gathered up her things, and 
bade us good-bye. My stepmother said 
afterwards that she would have liked to 
have paid her more than she asked for the 
laces, but feared to wound her pride. 

“One can see the poor little woman has 
known better days,” she said, with a sigh. 
“She belongs to the class who are most 
difficult to help.” 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


241 


‘^That is just what Tante thought/’ I 
said, eagerly; “she was sure the woman 
was a lady.” 

“So am I,” said my stepmother. “Her 
husband is an artist, and poor like so many 
others. I must ask your father to try to 
find out something about the family. We 
may be able to do something for the chil- 
dren. ’ ’ 

I was going into the house when my step- 
mother called me back, and throwing one 
of the lovely lace scarfs she had bought 
over my shoulders, said it was for me, and 
that the others were for Peggy and Maud. 
I do love pretty things, and I am sure my 
face must have shone with pleasure when I 
thanked her for the gift. I wanted to kiss 
her hand, but she laughed and put both 
hands behind her, declaring that she was 
not a royal personage. I blushed, and 
said, “Pardon, Madame,” and then all at 
once — oh, I hope it was not wrong and dis- 
loyal to my mother’s memory — I put up 


242 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


my face and kissed her, for the first time, 
just as Maud and Peggy do every morn- 
ing and night. Next moment both her 
arms were round me. 

‘‘Dear little Victorine,’’ she said, “you 
don’t hate me quite as much as you did at 
first, do you?” 

“Hate you!” I cried. “Oh, Madame, I 
never did that.” 

“Well, perhaps you didn’t exactly hate 
me,” said my stepmother, smiling, “but I 
have an idea we are going to he better 
friends than we were.” 

I withdrew myself gently from her em- 
brace, and hurried away upstairs that she 
might not see the tears in my eyes. I was 
so afraid the longing in my heart might 
show in my face, and I must remember 
Tante. 

Tante will be here to-morrow evening, 
and so will my father. They are to meet 
in Portland, where both have to change 
trains. Tante ’s friends are to put her on 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


243 


the train in Montreal, and she does not 
have to move till she meets my father in 
Portland, so I suppose she and Suzanne 
will manage very well, even without speak- 
ing English. I must stop writing now 
and go for a game of tennis with Charlie, 
but I will try to write some more to-mor- 
row night, for I am sure there will he a 
good deal to say when Tante comes home. 

August Tenth. 

When I stopped writing and put away 
my hook on that Friday afternoon more 
than two weeks ago, how little I dreamed 
of all the strange, wonderful things that 
were to happen before I was able to take 
it out of the drawer again, and go on with 
my story. Such a wonderful story as it 
is, too ; why, even ^ ^ Colette ’s ’ ’ was tame in 
comparison. I am so anxious to write it 
all down, but they will not let me write for 
very long at a time yet, and so I am afraid 
it will take me some days to tell every- 


244 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


thing, for I do want to make my book as 
interesting as I can, even if no one ever 
reads it but myself. Tante says I may 
write for an hour this afternoon, and I am 
so glad, for I was growing very tired of 
lying still all day long, and reading tires 
my eyes. They all try to make it as pleas- 
ant for me as possible, but I really think 
I enjoy writing in my book more than al- 
most everything else. Tante knows about 
my book now, and she does not object in 
the least, but I must go back to the begin- 
ning, and try to tell the story in the proper 
way, just as real authors do. 

I stopped writing on the afternoon of 
the day before Tante and my father were 
expected home. The next day was Satur- 
day, and was very warm and damp. Peg- 
gy’s and my hair came out of curl almost 
before we had finished breakfast, and 
even Maud — ^who is usually the most en- 
ergetic member of the family — declared it 
was too warm to do anything but sit on 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


245 


tlie veranda and read. I played tennis in 
the morning, but although I had a splen- 
did time and Charlie and I beat Dick and 
Peggy two sets, I did not feel quite com- 
fortable. I was glad about Tante’s com- 
ing home, of course, but I could not help 
wondering whether she would approve of 
all I had been doing in her absence, and I 
knew it would be very disagreeable if she 
were to object to my playing tennis so 
much, or going sailing with the boys. I 
had found out from Peggy what the ex- 
pression ‘‘mollycoddle,’’ meant, and I did 
not like the idea of having people use it 
in connection with me. 

I went into Tante’s room just before 
dinner, and found my stepmother there, 
arranging flowers in the vases. She 
looked up with a smile as I entered, and 
said pleasantly — 

“I thought Madame de Balfour might 
think it looked more homelike to find flow- 
ers in her room.” 


246 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


‘‘You are indeed kind, Madame, I said. 
“I am sure Tante will be pleased; she 
loves flowers.’^ 

“I know she does,’’ said my stepmother; 
“every one loves flowers.” She went on 
arranging them, and I stood watching her 
in silence. Then suddenly I decided to 
say something that had been on my mind 
for days. 

“You have been very kind to me since 
Tante went away,” I said. * “I should like 
to thank you. ’ ’ 

“My dear little girl,” said my step- 
mother, smiling in her pleasant, friendly 
way, “why in the world should I not be 
kind to you? Aren’t you my own — ” 
She broke oif abruptly, and turned away, 
looking red and uncomfortable. I felt my 
own cheeks growing hot, and began to wish 
I had not thanked her. After all, it did 
seem very cold and formal. If I could 
only have kissed her it would have made 
everything all right, but of course that 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


247 


was impossible, so I hurried away to my 
room, making some foolish excuse about 
getting ready for dinner. 

I noticed that my stepmother was quieter 
than usual at dinner, and once or twice I 
saw her looking at me with a rather sad 
expression in her eyes. I was afraid I 
had disappointed her. Perhaps she had 
hoped we should become better friends 
while Tante was away, and if so she must 
have been disappointed for I had been 
very careful never to change my respectful 
manner towards her in the least. She 
went to her room right after dinner, say- 
ing she had letters to write, and was then 
going to Mrs. Dexter’s to sew for the fair. 
Dick went to the village to get his hair 
cut, and do some errands for his aunt, 
and the rest of us settled ourselves on the 
veranda, and Maud read aloud, while 
Peggy and I did fancy work. I was em- 
broidering a handkerchief case for Tante, 
and Peggy was knitting an afghan for her 


248 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


sister’s mother-in-law. Maud read us a 
story about a very clever man named 
Sherlock Holmes, who discovered the 
most astonishing mysteries, and it was so 
exciting that even Charlie stayed to lis- 
ten, and sat quietly for more than an hour, 
without teasing any one. My stepmother 
stopped to speak to us on her way out, and 
then nothing else happened for some time. 
But at last Maud finished her story, and 
then Charfie began to be restless. 

‘^What shall we do this afternoon!” he 
inquired, getting up, with a yawn. 

am not going to do anything till I 
finish this afghan,” declared Peggy. 
^ ^ There are only three more rows to finish, 
and I want to send it off this evening. 
Mrs. Eutherford’s birthday is on Tues- 
day.” 

^‘Oh, bother your old afghan!” said 
Charlie. ‘‘Let’s do something. You 
don’t want to poke round here the whole 
afternoon.” 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


249 


read you another Sherlock Holmes 
story if you sit down and keep still/’ said 
Maud. ^‘Here’s a dandy one called ^The 
Speckled Band.’ It’s about a man who 
tries to kill his daughter by letting a snake 
down through the ceiling right over her 
bed.” 

But Charlie does not care much about 
reading of any kind, even exciting stories, 
and he refused to listen any longer. He 
said we might do as we pleased, hut he 
was going to have some fun. 

‘‘Wait till Hick comes hack, and then you 
can go fishing,” Maud proposed. “It’s a 
splendid afternoon to fish. ’ ’ 

But Charlie was in one of his obstinate 
moods. He said there was no knowing 
when Hick would come home, and most 
likely he wouldn’t want to go fishing when 
he came. 

“I’m going out for a sail,” he an- 
nounced. “You needn’t any of you come 
unless you want to.” 


250 


yiCTOEINE^S BOOK 


^^Oh, all right/’ said Maud, indiffer- 
ently; if yon like. You’d better look 
out for the fog, though. It looks to me 
very much as if we were going to have one 
before long.” 

“Shucks!” said Charlie, “there won’t 
be any fog to-day. I guess I know a little 
more about fog than you do. I’m off. So 
long. ’ ’ 

He was turning awaywhen my conscience 
gave me an uncomfortable twinge. It did 
seem a dreadful risk to let that poor af- 
flicted boy go off alone in a sailboat. 
Suppose he were to have one of his at- 
tacks. I could not understand how Maud 
could be so thoughtless. 

“If you will wait five minutes,” I said, 
“I will go with you; I have nearly finished 
my work.” 

Charlie looked really pleased, although 
he only said — 

“All right. I’ll go ahead and get the 
boat ready. Come as soon as you can.” 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


251 


‘‘ There hardly any breeze,’’ objected 
Maud. ‘‘You’ll be sure to get becalmed, 
and then you’ll be late for supper.” 

I began to feel a little uneasy. I knew: 
Tante would consider it a great lack of 
respect if I were not at the door to re- 
ceive her when she arrived. I hoped 
Charlie would give up the sail, but he is an 
obstinate boy, and when he has once made 
up his mind to do a thing it is almost im- 
possible to induce him to change it. He 
declared there was plenty of wind and 
went otf down to the landing, without giv- 
ing Maud time for any more objections. 
In a few minutes I finished my handker- 
chief case, and went upstairs for my hat. 

“I think you are a saint, Victorine,” 
said Peggy, laughing. “You know per- 
fectly well that you don’t want to go sail- 
ing this hot afternoon.” 

“I do not care to go,” I answered truth- 
fully, “but it does not seem right that 
Charlie should be permitted to go alone.” 


252 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


Peggy eyes opened wide in surprise, 
and I suddenly began to wonder whether 
it could be possible she had never been 
told of Charlie’s affliction. I glanced at 
Maud, but she was absorbed in her book, 
and did not appear to have heard our con- 
versation. So I said no more, and hav- 
ing procured my hat, hurried down to the 
dock to join Charlie. 

It was a very still afternoon, with just 
enough breeze to stir the sail. I liked the 
gentle motion, although it made me rather 
sleepy, but I noticed that Charlie glanced 
at the sky every few moments. 

‘‘We won’t go far,” he said at last; 
“just round the point and back. I 
shouldn’t wonder if we did get a little fog 
before night.” 

“I like fog,” I said; “it makes things 
look so strange and mysterious, and I love 
the dampness on my face.” 

“I guess you wouldn’t like it so much 
if you ever happened to get caught out in 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


253 


a big one,’’ said Charlie. ‘‘Uncle Walter, 
Dick and I got caught in a fog last sum- 
mer that was so thick you could cut it with 
a knife. We couldn’t see a dozen feet 
ahead of us.” 

“What did you do?” I inquired, curi- 
ously. 

“Put in shore on one of the islands, and 
stayed there till the fog lifted. It was ten 
o ’clock when we got home, and mother and 
Aunt Jennie were scared to death about 
us.” 

“Don’t you think perhaps we had better 
go home now if there is any danger?” I 
suggested. “I should not like to be away 
when Tante arrives.” 

But Charlie scorned the idea of danger, 
and declared that we should get home long 
before the fog came up. So I said no 
more, and we glided on for some time, al- 
most in silence. Charlie was unusually 
quiet that afternoon, and something in the 
warm, heavy atmosphere made me very 


254 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


drowsy. Several times I felt my head 
nod, and at last I think I must really have 
fallen into a doze, for I came to myself 
with a start, roused by an exclamation 
from Charlie. 

‘^What is the matter?’^ I inquired in sur- 
prise, for I could see nothing wrong. 

‘^Wind’s died out,’^ said Charlie, who 
was looking rather worried. 

^ ‘ 0 dear ! ’ ’ I cried, clasping my hands in 
dismay; ^‘what shall we doV’ 

“Can’t do anything but wait for the 
breeze to come up again,” said Charlie. 

I looked about helplessly, in the vain 
hope of discovering some way out of our 
difficulty. We were some distance from 
shore, and the sail was flapping. 

“Could we not row ourselves ashore!” 
I suggested. “I could help.” 

Charlie shook his head. 

“I forgot to bring my oars,” he said. 
“We’ll just have to stay here till the 



“ Wind’s died out,” said Charlie.— P ag^e 254 . 




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VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


255 


breeze comes up again; 1 don’t believe it 
will be long.” 

I was so distressed that I bad to wink 
back the tears, but I did not want Charlie 
to think me unreasonable, so I tried to act 
as if I did not mind very much. 

“Do you think they will be anxious 
about us?” I asked as cheerfully as I 
could. 

“Oh, no,” said Charlie; “they can see 
for themselves that there isn’t any wind. 
Besides, Uncle Walter’s coming home, and 
he never worries. He’ll tell Aunt Jennie 
we’re all right.” 

“I am afraid Tante will be very un- 
happy,” I said; “she does not like boats.” 

“Oh, Uncle Walter will tell her we’re 
safe,” said Charlie, reassuringly. “Be- 
sides, I don’t believe this calm is going to 
last. We may be home before they are.” 

I did not say any more, for I was afraid 
my voice would tremble. Charlie put his 


256 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


hands in his pockets, and began to whistle. 
He tried to look very cheerful, but there 
was an anxious expression in his eyes, and 
he kept glancing out to sea, as if he were 
expecting something. Suddenly a dread- 
ful thought flashed into my mind. Per- 
haps Charlie felt a convulsion coming on, 
and was afraid to tell me. The thought 
made me cold and faint, but I wanted to 
comfort the poor boy if I could. 

‘‘You have been quite well this summer, 
Charlie, have you not?^^ I said, trying 
hard to speak cheerfully and naturally. 

Charlie gave a start, and looked at me 
with an expression of astonishment. 

“Welir^ he repeated, “why, of course, 
I^m always — ’’ Then he broke off 
abruptly, and grew very red. My heart 
went out to him in a great pity. I thought 
that for the moment he must have forgot- 
ten his affliction, and the sudden recollec- 
tion of it had made him blush. 

“You are a brave boy, Charlie,’’ I said. 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


257 


feeling that I must say something kind 
and encouraging. “I did not like yon at 
first, but I admire yon very mnch now, and 
I am prond to be yonr friend. ’ ’ 

I held ont my hand to him, bnt instead of 
taking it, he tnrned npon me qnite fiercely. 

^‘Drop that!’’ he said. 

^^Drop what?” I asked, for I had never 
heard that expression before, and for the 
moment I really thonght he wanted me to 
drop something. 

^^That talk,” said Charlie, who had 
grown redder than ever, and was really 
looking very miserable. ‘^It’s all rot, yon 
know. ’ ’ 

^^Bnt it is trne,” I persisted, deter- 
mined to make Charlie do himself jnstice. 
^^Any boy who can bear his affliction as 
bravely and nncomplainingly as yon bear 
yonrs deserves to be admired.” 

‘^Look here,” cried Charlie, fiercely, ‘4f 
yon don’t stop that talk I’ll — I’ll do some- 
thing yon won’t like.” 


258 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


I was silent. Charlie’s rudeness fairly 
took away my breath. I had only meant 
to be kind and sympathetic, and he was 
treating me as if I had insulted him. I 
was really very much hurt, but I tried to 
make allowances for him. I remembered 
once hearing Madame Delacourt say that 
children who were subject to convulsions 
were often nervous and irritable, even 
when their intellects were not ahPected. 
The fact that the mere allusion to his af- 
fliction made Charlie so angry, proved how 
keenly he must be suffering. He had de- 
liberately turned his back to me, and was 
staring out to sea. Neither of us spoke 
for at least five minutes. Then suddenly 
Charlie turned round again and looked at 
me. He was still crimson, and his eyes 
had a queer ashamed look in them. 

^‘See here, Vic!” he burst out, never 
supposed you’d believe that rot all this 
time.” 

‘‘What rot?” I inquired. I do not like 


VICTOKINE’S BOOK 


259 


the word at all, but at the moment 

could not think of any other to use in its 
place. 

^^Why, about my having fits, and all 
that stuff I told you,’^ said Charlie, be- 
ginning to grin in spite of his embarrass- 
ment. 

‘^Certainly I believed it,’^ I said, a sud- 
den dreadful suspicion making my cheeks 
tingle. ‘^Was it not true?’’ 

^^Of course it wasn’t,” said Charlie; “I 
only said it to scare you. It was such a 
joke I” Suddenly he leaned back, and be- 
gan to laugh. 

Now if Charlie had been sorry and pen- 
itent I think I might have forgiven him, 
in spite of all the anxiety his silly joke 
had caused me, but to see him sitting there, 
holding his sides, as if he were unable to 
control his amusement, was more than I 
could bear. I was so angry that I almost 
jumped from my seat, and the hot, indig- 
nant words were out before I knew it. 


260 


VICTOMNE^S BOOK 


‘^You are a wicked boy/’ I cried, my 
voice shaking and choking with rage. ‘‘I 
will never forgive you. I wish I could get 
out of this boat now this moment, and 
never speak to you again as long as I live. 
You have made a fool of me!” Suddenly 
I burst into tears, and hid my burning face 
in my hands. 

Charlie had stopped laughing, and sat 
perfectly still, staring at me with an ex- 
pression of blank amazement on his face. 

^^Well, you have got a temper,” he said, 
slowly. 

^‘Yes, I have a temper,” I sobbed, '^and 
I am glad of it. I would not be such a 
coward as you — ” 

‘^I’m not a coward,” interrupted Char- 
lie, and this time his voice sounded really 
angry. 

^‘You are,” I maintained. ‘‘No one 
but a coward could take pleasure in mak- 
ing others suffer.” 

“I never made any one suffer in my 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 261 

life, ’ ’ Charlie declared furiously. ‘ ^You ’re 
nothing but a silly, anyway.” 

‘‘Perhaps I am only a silly,” I said, “but 
even silliness can suffer, I suppose. For 
weeks I have pitied you. I have tried to 
be kind to you. I have even prayed to the 
good God to comfort you and help you to 
bear your sorrow, and now you laugh at 
me. All the time you have been laughing 
at me behind my back. Perhaps Dick and 
Maud know about your joke, as you call 
it, and have been laughing, too.” 

“No, they don’t,” said Charlie. “Catch 
me telling. Maud would take my head off 
if she knew, and so would Aunt Jennie. 
Come now, Vic, don’t make such a row 
about it. I didn’t mean any harm, and it 
was just a joke.” 

“It was not a joke,” I cried, indig- 
nantly; “it was an outrageous lie. I will 
never forgive you, and I want you to take 
me home at once.” 

“Can’t till the wind comes up,” said 


262 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


Charlie, sulkily. Besides, it wasn’t a 
lie. I never said I was subject to fits; I 
only said I might have one coming on. It 
wasn’t my fault if you imagined I meant 
something I didn’t.” 

I was furious, all the more so because 
I realized my helplessness. 

‘‘I should like to jump out of this boat 
and swim ashore,” I said. 

Charlie made no answer, and neither of 
us spoke again for some time. I deliber- 
ately turned my back on him, and cried 
quietly for the next half-hour. I was very 
angry and very unhappy. I had really 
grown fond of Charlie, and it was a ter- 
rible disappointment to find that all my 
affection and sympathy had been wasted. 
Oh, what a long afternoon that was! I 
dried my eyes after a while, but I would 
not look at Charlie or speak to him, and 
he appeared equally determined not to 
speak to me. I thought I might as well 
go to sleep as do anything else, and reso- 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


263 


lutelx closed my eyes, but no sleep came. 
Indeed, I was beginning to be really anx- 
ious; it was growing late, and still there 
was no sign of a breeze. 

At last, after what seemed an age of 
waiting, I felt a puff of damp air in my 
face, and with a sigh of intense relief, I 
opened my eyes. 

‘^Here is the breeze,’’ I said; ‘^now we 
can go home at once.” 

‘^It’s the fog,” said Charlie, and his 
voice shook a little, but whether from an- 
ger or anxiety I could not tell. 

Sure enough, it was the fog. In less 
than five minutes we were buried in it, and 
sea, shore, everything, was shut out from 
our view by what looked like great blan- 
kets of mist. 

‘^What shall we do?” I gasped, forget- 
ting aU about my anger in this new anx- 
iety. 

^‘We can’t do anything but drift till the 
fog lifts,” said Charlie, who was looking 


264 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


a little pale himself . going to haul 

in the sail/’ 

‘‘Why do you do that?” I asked, for I 
am really very ignorant about all such mat- 
ters. 

“We might get carried out to sea if I 
didn’t,” said Charlie, crossly. 

I asked no more questions, but helped 
Charlie take in the sail, and after that 
neither of us spoke for some minutes. 
Then I said tremulously. 

“Do you think they will be very much 
frightened about us at home?” 

“Can’t help it if they are,” was Char- 
lie’s reassuring answer. “It wasn’t our 
fault that the wind went down and the fog 
came up.” 

“WTiat do you think will happen to us?” 
I inquired, beginning to tremble. 

‘ ‘ Oh, nothing very bad. We ’ll just have 
to drift around here till the fog lifts. Per- 
haps it won ’t be long. I ’ll blow the horn. ’ ’ 
He took from under the seat an enormous 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 265 

fish-horn, which he proceeded to blow sev- 
eral times in succession. 

The noise the horn made seemed to me 
almost deafening, but apparently no one 
else heard it, for though Charlie continued 
to blow every few minutes, we heard no 
answering sound. It makes me shiver 
even now when I think of the time that fol- 
lowed. It had been a very warm day, but 
the fog was cold and damp, and before 
long I was shivering in my thin muslin, 
and my teeth were chattering. The mist 
wet us through like rain, and even Charlie 
beat his hands together and stamped his 
feet. I think we had both forgotten our 
quarrel — I know I had — and I drew close 
to Charlie, and slipped my cold hand into 
his. I was growing more frightened every 
moment. 

‘^What time do you suppose it I 
said at last, and it seemed as if even my 
voice sounded muffled in that dreadful 
mist. 


266 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


don^t know/’ said Charlie; ^4t’s get- 
ting pretty dark; I gness it must be after 
seven.” 

‘‘Tante was to arrive at half -past six,” 
I said, with a sob. 

‘‘Well, it can’t be helped, and Uncle 
Walter will be there, too,” said Charlie, 
trying to speak cheerfully. 

“Won’t my father be frightened?” I in- 
quired in surprise. 

“I don’t believe so; men aren’t f raid- 
cats like women, you know, but even if he 
is, he won’t let the others know. Uncle 
Walter’s got too much grit for that.” 

“You admire my father very much, do 
you not?” I said. 

“Of course I do. Look here, Vic, I’m 
awfully sorry I’ve gotten you into this 
mess. I wouldn’t have done it if I could 
have helped it, honor bright I wouldn’t.” 

“I don’t suppose you would,” I ad- 
mitted, “but,” I added, my anger rising 
again at the recollection, “I would never 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


267 


have come out with you this afternoon if 
I had not been so sorry for your affliction.’^ 
Suddenly I snatched my hand away from 
Charlie’s and began to cry again. 

Neither of us spoke for a long time, and 
then at last the awful stillness was broken 
by a low, rumbling sound. 

“What is that?” I demanded, clutching 
Charlie’s arm nervously. 

“Thunder,” said Charlie, shortly. 

“Thunder!” I repeated with a scream. 
“Are we going to have a thunder storm?” 

“Shouldn’t wonder; the air’s felt like it 
all day. Don’t be so scared, it may clear 
away the fog, and we can’t be much wetter 
than we are already.” 

I suppose Charlie intended to comfort 
me, but I have always been afraid of thun- 
der storms, and the thought of one out 
there in that little boat, in the midst of the 
terrible fog, was more than I could bear. 
I buried my face on Charlie’s shoulder, 
and closed my eyes, and then we both 


268 


lVictoeine^s book 


waited in silence while the thunder grew 
louder and louder, and the lightning 
flashed through the fog. 

‘‘Perhaps it’ll blow over,” said Char- 
lie, “they often do.” But even as he said 
the words, there was a sudden gust of 
wind that sent our little boat rocking from 
side to side ; a vivid flash of lightning fol- 
lowed by a great peal of thunder, and down 
came the rain. In less than two minutes 
we were both drenched to the skin. 

August Eleventh. 

I had to stop writing yesterday, because 
Tante came in and took away my book. 
She said I was getting excited, and had 
red spots in my cheeks again, but I have 
promised to be very good to-day if she will 
let me go on with my story. She says I 
may write for an hour, but not a minute 
longer. 

To go back to where I left oft yesterday. 
I was never so frightened before in my 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


269 


life. We both crouched down in the boat, 
and I covered my face with my hands and 
tried to pray. How long it lasted I do 
not know, but the next thing I remember 
was a terrible grating sound, and then 
Charlie’s voice shouting above the fury of 
the storm. ^^We’re on the rocks; we’ll 
have to scramble.” 

How I did it I shall never know. I sup- 
pose the good God gives us strength for 
such moments. I never could have done it 
but for Charlie’s help. Oh, but he was 
brave and strong! He seized my hands, 
and never let go for a moment all the time 
we were scrambling up those sharp, slip- 
pery rocks. Twice I fell, but he dragged 
me up again, and at last we reached a 
smooth ledge of rock, breathless, ex- 
hausted, but safe. 

There was a terrible pain in my knee, 
which I had hurt in one of my falls, and I 
think I must have lost consciousness for 
a moment, for I do not remember anything 


270 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


until I found myself lying flat on the rock, 
with my head resting against Charlie’s 
knee. 

^^Are we safe?” I gasped, trying to sit 
up. 

guess so,” said Charlie, in a queer, 
hoarse voice; ^Hhe boat’s gone, though.” 

I sat up and looked about me. The 
storm was almost over, but the fog had 
not lifted, and it was growing very dark. 
There was just light enough to see that 
we were on the edge of a jagged ledge of 
rocks, and that there was land behind us. 

‘‘Never mind about the boat,” I said, 
with a shudder; “we might have been 
drowned. ’ ’ 

“That’s so,” said Charlie; “we came 
pretty near it, I guess, but we’re all right 
now. We can stay here till somebody finds 
us.” 

“Have you any idea where we are?” I 
asked. 

“We must be on one of the islands, but 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


271 


it^s too dark to see much. It’s queer the 
thunder storm didn’t clear away the fog; 
it usually does. ’ ’ 

‘^Do you think they will find us to- 
night?” I whispered. I was shivering 
from head to foot, and my knee was throb- 
bing painfully. 

‘^Oh, yes, I’m sure they will,” said 
Charlie, reassuringly. ‘‘It may be a little 
hard in this fog, but Uncle Walter will be 
sure to scour the whole Bay for us. As 
soon as the fog lifts we shall be all right. 
I wish I could have saved the horn, but 
we can shout every little while, and they’ll 
be sure to hear us before long.” 

“Charlie,” I exclaimed, in a sudden 
burst of gratitude, “I believe you saved 
my life. I could never have climbed that 
dreadful rock without you. I should have 
slipped back into the water and been 
drowned.” 

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” said Charlie, 
“you’ve got too much grit for that.” 


272 yiCTOEINE^S BOOK 

Then we were both silent. In a few min- 
utes the rain had stopped, but the fog was 
as thick as ever. It was very cold and 
very dark, and it seemed as if the pain in 
my knee grew worse every moment. At 
last I could not repress a moan, and Char- 
lie asked me what the matter was. 

‘‘It is my knee,” I said; “I am afraid I 
have hurt it badly.” 

“That’s too bad,” said Charlie. “I 
hope it will be better soon, because we may 
have to do some more scrambling. ’ ’ 

“Why?” I inquired, for the thought of 
moving again made me sick and faint. 
“Can we not stay here till they find 
us?” 

Charlie hesitated for a moment, and 
then he said slowly — 

“Well, you see, I’m not sure just where 
we are. Some of the rocks are covered at 
high tide.” 

I could not repress a little scream, of 
which I was ashamed. It seemed dreadful 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 273 

to be such a coward when Charlie was so 
brave. 

^‘When will it be high tideT’ I asked in 
a whisper. 

^^Ten o’clock/’ said Charlie, in a voice 
not much louder than my own; saw it 
on the calendar this morning.” 

‘‘Do you think they will find us before 
ten o’clock?” I faltered. 

“Can’t tell. The Bay’s pretty big, and 
it may take them some time to get round 
in this fog. It’s as thick as pea soup. 
You see, I haven’t the ghost of an idea 
where we are; the boat must have drifted 
a good way.” 

“Shall we not begin to shout soon?” I 
asked. 

For answer Charlie gave a loud shout, 
which seemed to awaken a hundred echoes, 
but produced no other result. He shouted 
several times, but no answer came, and 
then he said it might be as well to wait un- 
til we heard them calling us. 


274 


yiCTOEINE’S BOOK 


‘‘They’ll be sure to do that, you know,” 
he said, “and then we can answer and let 
them know where we are. If we keep on 
shouting now we may get so hoarse that 
we won’t be able to make them hear.” 

I made no objection, feeling sure Char- 
lie knew best, and we sat in silence for 
what seemed a very long time. We were 
both drenched to the skin, and numb with 
cold, and the pain in my knee was making 
me sick and faint, but I tried not to let 
Charlie see how I was sutfering. It was 
very still; the only sound was the water 
lapping gently against the rocks. At last 
Charlie spoke. 

“Tide’s coming up,” he said. “Don’t 
you hear how much nearer the water 
sounds? I guess you’ll have to manage to 
climb a little higher. I can help you a 
good deal.” 

“I will try,” I said, making a desper- 
ate effort to rise, which only resulted in 
sinking back on the rock again, with a 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 275 

scream of pain, while for a moment every- 
thing grew black before my eyes. 

can’t do it, Charlie,” I gasped, 
faintly; there is no use trying.” 

^^You must have hurt your knee dread- 
fully,” said Charlie. ^‘What in the 
world are we going to do I These rocks 
will be covered before long. You’ve got to 
manage somehow.” 

‘^Charlie,” I said desperately, ‘‘I shall 
have to stay here and drown unless help 
comes in time ; but you are not hurt — ^you 
can go.” 

“Go and leave you!” cried Charlie, in- 
dignantly. “Well, I guess not ! I got you 
into this scrape, and I’ve got to stick by 
you till we’re both out of it somehow.” 

“But there is no use in both of us drown- 
ing,” I remonstrated. “Think of your 
father and mother.” 

“Don’t talk rot,” was Charlie’s gruff 
reply. “A nice sneak my father would 
think me if I went off and left a girl in a 


276 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


pickle like this. Then there’s Uncle Wal- 
ter ; do you suppose I could ever face him 
again if I came home without you?” 

That was too much for my courage, and 
I burst into tears. 

^^Do you think he would care so very 
much if I were drowned?” I sobbed. ‘‘He 
has only known me such a little while, and 
I am afraid I have been a dreadful dis- 
appointment to him.” 

“Bosh!” said Charlie, impatiently. 
“Uncle Walter’s crazy about you, and so 
is Aunt Jennie. You might have seen it 
in their faces the day you came, and Uncle 
Walter was always talking about you be- 
fore that. He was furious with your aunt 
for never letting you come to America, but 
he’d made her a promise, and he had to 
stick to it.” 

“I never knew — never dreamed they 
really cared,” I said, the thought adding a 
new pang to my misery. “And if I am 
drowned mother will never know — ” 


VICTOMNE'S BOOK 


277 


Never know what?^’ Charlie asked. 

‘‘How much I loved her, and how I 
longed to call her mother. Charlie, will 
yon tell her if yon get home and I am 
drowned? Tell her I loved her all the 
time, bnt I was afraid Tante wonld be 
angry.’’ 

“No, I won’t,” said practical Charlie, 
“becanse if yon don’t get home I sha’n’t 
either. Look here, Vic, yon’ve got to 
come on; yon’ve simply got to. Get on 
my back; I gness I can carry yon a little 
way; I’m pretty strong.” 

“Charlie,” I cried, in a ^eat bnrst of 
gratitnde and admiration, “I believe yon 
are the best boy in the world! Can yon 
ever forgive me for the cmel things I said 
to yon this afternoon?” 

“Shncks!” said Charlie; “that’s all 
right. Now come on.” 

Bnt I wonld not let him try to carry me. 
He is not any taller than I, and nearly six 
months yonnger. I made another effort 


278 VICTOEINE^S BOOK 

to rise, and Charlie grasped both my 
hands. 

The thought of the next few minutes 
turns me cold and sick even now when I 
recall it. The pain in my knee was fright- 
ful, and I had to bite my lips to keep from 
screaming at every step. How I ever man- 
aged to struggle on over those slippery 
rocks I do not know; nothing but the aw- 
ful fear of drowning would have enabled 
me to move. All at once my strength 
failed, everything grew black, and I felt 
myself sinking down out of Charlie ^s 
grasp. The next thing I remember was 
the flash of a lantern in my eyes, a strange 
man bending over me, and Charlie’s voice 
shouting joyfully — 

‘‘We’re all right, Vic, we’re all right 
now ! ’ ’ 

“Are we safe?” I asked in a faint voice, 
speaking in French, for at the moment I 
seemed to have forgotten all my English. 

“You are quite safe,” the stranger an- 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


279 


swered, also in French, and without a 
word more, he lifted me in his strong arms, 
and began hurrying on over the slippery 
rocks, Charlie leading the way with the 
lantern. 

I was too exhausted, and in too much 
pain to ask any questions, but Charlie soon 
explained everything. 

‘‘We^re on the island where the house 
is,’’ he told me. hadn’t an idea where 
we were till I saw a light through the fog, 
and then I remembered that house. I 
tried to tell you, but you didn’t seem to 
hear, so I shouted, and in a few minutes I 
heard some one shout back, and then this 
gentleman came with the lantern.” 

‘ ^ My wife and I heard the shouting, and 
felt sure something must be wrong,” our 
new friend added, speaking this time in 
English, though with a slightly foreign ac- 
cent. ‘^How long had you been on those 
rocks?” 

Charlie said he did not know, but thought 


280 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


it must have been hours, and then he told 
about the boat, and our fears of the rising 
tide, and in the midst of his story I think 
I must have fainted again, for I do not re- 
member anything more until I opened my 
eyes to find myself lying on a bed in a 
warm room, with something hot being 
poured down my throat, and that sweet lit- 
tle woman — Angele’s mother — rubbing 
my hands. 

Oh, the relief of seeing a familiar face! 
In the joy of the moment I quite forgot 
what strangers we really were, and before 
I realized what I was doing, I had drawn 
down the pretty face and kissed it. 

‘‘I am so glad it is you,’’ I said in 
French, and she answered, half laughing 
and half crying, ^‘And I am so glad it is 
you, c/ime.” 

I shall never, never forget how kind 
those people were to us that night. It was 
a very small cottage, not much larger than 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


281 


a fisherman’s hut, but if it had been a pal- 
ace we could not have been treated with 
more true hospitality. We were both 
shivering in our wet clothes, and the first 
thing they did was to get us undressed and 
into warm beds. The yoimg man took 
care of Charlie, and his wife undressed 
me as tenderly as my own mother could 
have done, and put me in her own bed, 
where she dosed me with hot tisane, and 
would have bathed my knee if the pain had 
not been so great that I could not bear the 
slightest touch. She looked very much 
troubled when she saw it, and said that the 
moment the fog lifted her husband would 
row over to the village, and bring back a 
doctor. 

‘‘Your friends must be terribly anxious 
about you,” she said. “We must relieve 
their minds as soon as possible.” 

There were only two beds in the cottage, 
except the baby’s crib — ^which stood in one 


282 VICTOEINE’S BOOK 

corner of the mother room — and in order 
to make room for Charlie, Angele and 
Paul had to be aroused from their first 
sound sleep, and bundled into the kitchen, 
where some sort of sleeping accommoda- 
tion was made for them on the floor. They 
both came to look at us in their little 
night-gowns, and asked a great many 
questions about us, which their mother an- 
swered in her pretty French. The last 
sound I heard as I dropped off into the 
sleep of exhaustion, was Angele ^s voice, 
saying in a tone of awe — 

Would they have been drowned. 
Mamma, if papa had not heard them call 
for helpT^ And her mother’s answer; 

‘‘Yes, cherie, hut the good God would not 
let such a terrible thing happen, so he sent 
papa in time to save them before the tide 
came up.” I tried to murmur a little 
prayer of thankfulness, but I was very, 
very tired, and almost before the words 
were uttered I was fast asleep. 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


283 


August Twelfth. 

Peggy and Maud came in to read aloud 
yesterday, so I had to stop writing. They 
are much interested in my book, and I have 
promised to read parts of it to them some 
time. Maud says she hates reading 
French, as a rule, but thinks she will en- 
joy hearing my book, and it will be a help 
to her, as she is the poorest French 
scholar in her class. Peggy speaks 
French very well. Oh, how I do love 
Peggy, and Maud, too ! It makes me very 
happy to know that I have two such 
friends. 

But I must go back to my story, for the 
most interesting part of all has yet to 
come. It was very quiet in the little house 
when I awoke. It was still dark, and there 
was a lamp burning on the table, but the 
room seemed to be empty, except for the 
baby asleep in his crib in the corner. My 
knee still ached and throbbed a good deal, 
but the pain was not quite so bad now that 


284 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


I was lying still in bed, and I raised my- 
self on my elbow, and looked about curi- 
ously. Next moment I bad uttered a cry 
of astonishment, and was rubbing my eyes, 
to make sure I was really awake. There, 
right before me, on the table beside the 
lamp, stood a framed photograph of 
Tante. I was sure it was Tante, at the 
first glance, for the likeness was perfect, 
although the costume was old-fashioned, 
and the picture a little faded. I was sure 
I must be dreaming, and lay staring at the 
picture in a kind of stupid amazement, un- 
til the little French woman — ^who had 
heard my exclamation — came hurrying into 
the room. 

‘‘What is the matter, cherie?^^ she in- 
quired, tenderly, bending over me. “Is it 
the poor knee that hurts so? We think 
the fog is lifting, and very soon my hus- 
band will be able to go to the village for 
help.’’ 

“I don’t think my knee is any worse,” I 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


285 


said, my eyes still on that mysterious pho- 
tograph, ''but — but would you mind telling 
me where that picture came from?’’ 

She followed the direction of my gaze, 
and I saw the pretty color rise in her 
cheeks. 

"The photograph is one my husband 
has had for many years, ’ ’ she said — ' ' does 
it interest you?” 

"Yes, indeed it does,” I cried; "I am 
sure it is the picture of my aunt. ’ ’ 

"Your aunt?” she repeated in a low 
voice; "surely you are mistaken, Made- 
moiselle.” 

"No, I am not mistaken,” I persisted 
impatiently — I think I was beginning to be 
feverish — "it is my aunt’s photograph, I 
recognized it at once.” 

"May I ask your name. Mademoiselle?” 

"It is Victorine Maitland,” I said 
eagerly, "and my aunt is Madame de Bal- 
four.” 

The little woman clasped her hands, ut- 


286 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


tered a low cry, and without another word, 
turned and ran out of the room. Next mo- 
ment I heard her calling softly — 

‘^Paul, oh, Paul, cheri, come here, I 
something to tell you.’^ 

My heart was beating very fast, and I 
scarcely knew whether I was pleased or 
frightened. I felt sure I had made a won- 
derful discovery. The young Frenchman, 
who had saved my life — the father of An- 
gMe and Paul — ^must be my cousin Paul; 
the long-lost son for whom Suzanne said 
Tante had mourned so deeply. I could 
hear the husband and wife talking in low 
excited whispers, but it was some time be- 
fore my friend came back, and then her 
eyes were red, and she looked as if she had 
been crying. 

‘‘Mademoiselle,’’ she said in a low, 
tremulous voice, “what you have told me 
is very strange, my husband finds it hard 
to believe. You say your aunt’s name is 
De Balfour?” 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


287 


“Yes/’ I said, “her husband’s name 
was Jean de Balfour, and he was a mem- 
ber of the French legation. I have lived 
with my aunt ever since I was four years 
old, when my mother died in America, and 
my father brought me to Nice, where 
Tante has a villa. My aunt was very sad, 
because she had lost her husband and both 
her sons. Her husband and one of the 
sons were dead, and the other — the other 
had gone away. His name was Paul, 
and — ” 

“And was it your aunt who was on the 
train that night — who was so good to my 
little Angele?” she interrupted. 

“Yes,” I said, “that was Tante.” 

“But she was kind, a very angel of 
kindness, and I always thought — always 
believed — ” 

“I know,” I said, for I was sure I un- 
derstood what she meant; “you thought 
Tante was hard and unforgiving; people 
often think that who do not know her, but 


288 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


it is not true. She is very, very good to 
people she loves or is sorry for. She has 
been a mother to me ever since I was a 
little girl. She has had so much sorrow 
that sometimes she cannot help being very 
unhappy, and then people who don^t un- 
derstand think her hard. ’ ^ 

The little woman eyes were full of 
tears, and her hands were clasped, but she 
did not speak. I heard a slight sound 
outside the open window, which made me 
feel sure Paul was there listening, and I 
went on quickly, without giving myself 
time to be afraid. 

‘‘The greatest of all Tante’s sorrows is 
about her son Paul. She does not know 
where he is or what has become of him. 
Suzanne, her maid, told me she was sure 
Tante would give everything she has in 
the world just to see Paul once more.’’ 

If I had had any doubt before as to the 
identity of these people, it must have been 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


289 


swept away by what happened then, for, 
with a little eager cry the woman sprang 
to the window, calling breathlessly — 

^‘Panl, oh, Panl, do you hear what the 
child is saying 

Her pretty face was all shining and 
quivering when she turned from the win- 
dow again, and coming over to the bed- 
side, bent down and kissed me. 

‘^You dear child,’’ she whispered, 
believe you know who we are.” 

believe I have guessed,” I said, 
laughing and crying both together, and re- 
turning her kiss heartily. ^Ht is the 
most wonderful thing that ever happened, 
but I am almost sure you are my cousin 
Paul’s wife.” 

‘^Yes, I am,” she said, ^^but I never 
dreamed that the kind lady on the train, of 
whom I have often had such grateful 
thoughts, was my husband’s mother.” 

^^And she never dreamed that Angele 


290 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


and Paul were her own little grandchil- 
dren,’’ I said. ‘^Oh, how wonderful it all 
is! She liked you so much.” 

Paul’s wife flushed all over her face, 
and her lip began to quiver. 

am afraid she would not have liked 
us if she had known who we were,” she 
said, sadly. ‘‘She has never forgiven her 
son for marrying me.” 

Then all at once I remembered that 
Paul’s wife had worked in a Paris shop, 
and I felt my own cheeks growing hot, and 
was so embarrassed and uncomfortable, 
that I could not think of another word to 
say. But Paul’s wife is not the sort of 
person to let one feel uncomfortable for 
long, so she kissed me again, and told me 
not to fret, and that she was quite sure 
everything would turn out for the best. 

Then I said I should like to see Paul, 
and she went away to call him. They 
came back together in a few moments, 
Paul looking rather red and embarrassed. 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


291 


but with such a determined expression in 
his eyes and round his mouth, that I think 
I should have recognized him anywhere as 
Tautens son. 

‘‘Are you my cousin PaulT’ I Jtsked, 
holding out my hand. 

“Yes,” he said, smiling, and when he 
smiled the hardness all went out of his 
face, and I was reminded of Suzanne’s 
photograph. He took my hand, and 
looked at me very earnestly. 

“You must be little Victorine Mait- 
land,” he said; “Aunt Marguerite’s little 
daughter. This is a great surprise; I had 
no idea my mother was in America.” 

I told him we had been here since June, 
and explained the reason for our coming. 
I talked fast, for I could not help feeling 
very nervous. There was something in 
Paul’s expression which made me fear 
things might not be as easily arranged be- 
tween him and his mother as I had hoped 
they were going to be. 


292 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


‘‘Poor Tante must be terribly anxious 
about me,’’ I ended. “You will go to her 
as soon as possible, will you not!” 

“I will go to your friends the moment 
the fog lifts,” he said. “They must be 
assured of your safety. As to my moth- 
er — ” 

He paused abruptly, and drew his little 
wife to his side. 

“I cannot see my mother until I am sure 
she is willing to receive my little Marie,” 
he said, and Marie looked up at him, with 
a whole world of love shining in her eyes. 

“You must not be unkind to your 
mother, Paul,” she said gently, and then 
she kissed him, and they went out of the 
room together. 

I lay awake for a long time after that. 
Indeed, how could I possibly be expected 
to sleep with so much to think about? It 
seemed so strange and wonderful that I, 
of all people in the world, should be 
the one to find Paul. But now that he 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


293 


was found, would tilings be better or 
worse? I liked bis face, but be looked 
very mucb like Tante, and they were both 
so proud. Marie was lovely, and I could 
not see bow any one could belp loving 
ber, but then sbe bad worked in a Paris 
shop, and Suzanne bad spoken of PauPs 
marriage as a terrible mesalliance, I did 
not blame Paul in tbe least; I felt sure 
that bad I been a man I should bave 
wanted to marry Marie, myself, but then 
Tante and I do not always tbink alike 
about things. I thought and thought un- 
til my bead ached, and every time I moved 
there was that dreadful pain in my knee, 
but I was very tired, and at last I did drop 
otf to sleep, and awoke to find Marie sit- 
ting by me, and tbe first gray streaks of 
dawn coming in at tbe window. 

My first question was whether Paul bad 
started for tbe mainland. 

‘‘Yes,’’ said Marie, “be started half an 
hour ago, but it may take him some time. 


294 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


for the fog has not lifted yet but he did not 
like to delay any longer. Your friends 
must have passed a terrible night of anx- 
iety.’^ 

“Poor Tante!’’ I said, with a sigh. 
“Has Charlie gone with PaulT^ 

“No,^’ said Marie, “he is still fast 
asleep. He has not moved since we put 
him to bed at half-past nine last night. 
He was quite exhausted, poor boy.’^ 

“He was very brave,” I said, my eyes 
filling with tears at the recollection. “I 
should have been drowned if he had not 
helped me. Oh, those terrible rocks!” 

I shuddered at the remembrance, and Ma- 
rie laid her cool little hand soothingly on 
my hot one. 

“Don’t talk of it, cherie/^ she said; 
“try to forget it. How is the poor 
knee?” 

I told her it still pained a good deal. 

“You are a little feverish,” she said,> 
“but the doctor will soon come, and he 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 295 

will know what to do for you much better 
than 1.’’ 

^^You have done everything for me,” I 
said, impulsively squeezing her hand. 
shall always love you, and — and I am glad 
you are my cousin.” 

To my consternation Marie burst into 
tears, and laying her head down beside 
mine on the pillow, sobbed as if her heart 
would break. I was very much distressed, 
and had not the least idea how to comfort 
her, but I put my arms round her, and 
kissed her a great many times, and in a 
little while she stopped crying and dried 
her eyes. 

am afraid I have been very foolish,” 
she said when she could speak, ‘^but I sup- 
pose my nerves are unstrung. This has 
been a great shock. Neither Paul nor I 
had any idea that Madame de Balfour was 
in America. Oh, my child, are you sure 
what you told us is true — ^that PauPs 
mother loves him still ? ^ ’ 


296 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


am sure she does,’’ I said, and I told 
her all about the anniversary of Paul’s 
going away, and of what Suzanne had told 
me that night. But when I came to the 
part about Tante’s anger at her son’s 
marriage, I stammered, and became very 
much embarrassed. 

know,” said Marie, quietly, stroking 
my hand; ‘‘you need not be afraid to say 
it. Madame de Balfour did not consider 
me a fit match for her son. She had been 
told that I worked in a shop.” 

I said nothing, but took Marie’s hand, 
and pressed it against my cheek. 

“It is quite true that I was not such a 
girl as Madame de Balfour would have 
chosen for a daughter-in-law,” she went 
on, and her voice did not falter any more ; 
it even sounded rather proud, I thought. 
“We were very poor, and I had nothing to 
give him but love, but my family was as 
well-born as his.” 

“Eeally!” I cried joyfully, for this was 


VICTOKINE’S BOOK 


297 


indeed good news. ‘‘Tante does not care 
whether people are poor or not, if only 
they are of good family. Then it is not 
true that you worked in a shopT’ 

‘‘It is quite true,’’ said Marie, proudly, 
“and I am not ashamed of it. My father 
was a lawyer, and while he lived we had 
all we wanted, hut he was extravagant, 
and there were seven children to support, 
and so when he died suddenly there was 
very little left. I was the eldest, but I was 
only seventeen, and had not yet left the 
convent, where I had been at school. At 
first I tried to teach, but I am afraid I 
was not very clever, and the moth- 
ers did not think me old enough to 
teach their children. Then my mother 
had a long illness, and we were very, very 
poor. At last old Madame Poulard of- 
fered me a position in her flower shop. 
She was once our nurse, and we had 
known her all our lives. It nearly broke 
my mother’s heart to have me accept such 


298 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


a position, but it was either do that or let 
the children starve, so I did it. 

‘‘It was at the flower shop that I first 
met Paul, and we fell in love with each 
other. ^ ’ 

“I think it was noble of you to take the 
position,’^ I said, eagerly. “What has 
become of all your little brothers and sis- 
ters nowT’ 

“When I had been at the flower shop 
only a few months, an old friend of my 
mother’s came back from the West Indies, 
where he had been for some years, and 
asked her to marry him. He was very 
comfortably off, and he has been so good 
to them all. The boys are doing well now, 
and both my sisters are married. If it 
had not been for my mother’s marriage I 
could not have given up my position, but 
as it was, I was just going to leave at the 
time when Paul asked me to marry him.” 

Then she went on, telling how hard Paul 
had worked, and how poor they had been. 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


299 


They struggled on in Paris for several 
years, and then came to America, in the 
hope that Paul might be able to sell his 
pictures to better advantage here than in 
France. 

‘‘Paul has been so brave and so pa- 
tient,’^ she said, wiping her eyes as she 
spoke. “He never complains, and, oh, 
how hard he works I I sometimes think it 
would have been better for him if he had 
obeyed his mother, but he will never let 
me say so.’’ 

I thought of all Tanto’s money, and of 
all the empty rooms in the villa, and the 
garden where Angela and Paul might play 
so nicely. 

“Do you think Paul would like to be 
friends with his mother again?” I asked, 
anxiously. 

“I don’t know,” she answered, with a 
sigh. “He adored her once, and even 
now he^ always speaks of her with the 
greatest respect, but Paul is very proud. 


300 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


I used to think his mother must be a very 
hard woman, but when I remember all her 
kindness to us that night I feel sure she 
has a kind heart, after all. My little 
Angele still talks of the kind lady who gave 
her the medicine that took away the pain.’’ 

Just then the baby — ^who had been sleep- 
ing like an angel all night — ^woke and be- 
gan to whimper, and Marie had to take 
him up and give him his bottle. He is a 
darling little fellow, and I begged his 
mother to let me keep him for a while. 
She laid him in the bed beside me, and he 
gurgled and crowed and kicked till his 
bottle was ready, and then went to sleep 
again, cuddling it in his arms. 

I noticed how tired poor Marie looked, 
and remembered that she had given me her 
bed, and been obliged to sit up all night 
in consequence. It was still very early, 
and when the baby had gone to sleep again 
I persuaded her to lie down herself, and 
try to get a little rest. She refused at 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


301 


first, but in the end she yielded, and in less 
than ten minutes was fast asleep. But I 
could not sleep any more. The pain in my 
knee was growing rapidly worse, and I 
felt very hot and uncomfortable. I lay as 
still as I could, so as not to disturb Ma- 
rie, and thought of all the strange things 
that had happened since Charlie and I left 
home the afternoon before. Oh, how I 
did hope Tante and Paul would forgive 
each other and be happy again! I re- 
membered all Suzanne had told me about 
Paul, and how proud his parents were of 
him. I prayed to the good God to make 
things right for them all, and as I looked 
at Marie’s sweet face on the pillow be- 
side me, I wondered if any one in the 
world could possibly help loving her. 

At last I heard footsteps outside, and I 
think Marie must have heard them, too, 
though she seemed to be fast asleep, for 
she started up at once, and exclaiming, ‘‘It 
is Paul come back!” hurried out of the 


302 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


room. She returned in a few moments, 
with the news that Paul had come back 
and that the others would soon follow. It 
seems Paul had met my father and Dick, 
who, with a party of men, had been 
searching the bay for traces of us all night. 
He had assured them of our safety, and 
they had hurried home to take the news to 
Tante and my stepmother, and would soon 
come for us, bringing a doctor with them 
to attend to my knee. Paul had not 
waited for them, but came back at once in 
his own boat. 

After that Charlie and Angele and Paul 
all woke, and there was a good deal of 
noise and confusion. Marie prepared 
breakfast, and brought me some delicious 
colfee, which I drank thirstily, though I 
could not swallow the nice hot toast she 
had made. My head was aching, and I 
really felt very ill, although I was almost 
too much excited to think about it. 

I had just finished my coffee, when there 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


303 


was a shout from Charlie, and he came 
dashing into the bedroom, waving a slice 
of toast in each hand. 

‘^Here they come, Vic,’’ he etied, ^^all 
of them; Uncle Walter and Aunt Jennie, 
and your Tante, and Dr. Brooks. I’m go- 
ing to meet them!” And off he rushed, 
as well and strong as over, and not look- 
ing one bit the worse for his adventure. 

I gave a little gaop, and caught Marie’s 
hand nervously. 

‘‘Will Tante r^ee Paul?” I whispered. 

She shook her head sadly. 

“Not if Paul can help it,” she said; “he 
has gone to the other side of the island to 
sketch.” 

The]!:e were more questions I wanted to 
ask, but at that moment there was a sound 
of hurrying footsteps and eager voices, 
a,nd the next thing I knew Tante was 
bending over me. 

“Oh, my child, my little one!” That 
was all she said, but she held me close, 


8.04 VICTOEINE^S BOOK 

and there was a look in her face that I 
had never seen there before; even on the 
night of PauPs anniversary. All at once 
I realized, with a great throb of joy and 
surprise, that Tante did love me very, 
very much, and then my arms were round 
her neck, and I was clinging to her, as I 
had never dared to do before in my life. 

Tante did not say anything, but her 
kisses and her tears made me so happy 
that I cried myself, out^ of pure joy and 
thankfulness. 

When I lifted my head from Tante ^s 
shoulder, and looked to see who else was in 
the room, there was my stepmother stand- 
ing at the foot of the bed, with such a look 
of gladness and tenderness in hei^ eyes, 
that for the moment I forgot everytiing 
else except that I loved her, and before I 
realized what I was doing, I had stretchevd 
out my arms to her, and said ‘‘Mother 
Then Tante stood aside, and as my step- 
mother bent to kiss me, I drew down her 


yiCTOEINE’S BOOK 


305 


face, and whispered softly. ‘^Mother 
dear, please forgive me. I have loved yon 
all the time, only I was afraid to tell 
yon. ’ ’ 

And then, all at once, I remembered 
Tante, and was horribly frightened at 
what I had done, hnt when I looked np, 
fnlly expecting that she wonld he very 
angry, the only expression on her face was 
one of snch joyfnl serenity, that I was al- 
most breathless with astonishment. 

After that my father came and kissed 
me, and he was closely followed by the 
doctor, a kindly old gentleman, who ex- 
amined my knee, and prononnced it a had 
spraining. 

^^Yon won’t be able to play tennis for a 
little while, I’m afraid,” he said, smiling, 
^^but there is no serious mischief done.” 

^‘And now,” said my father, when he 
had been assured that I was not seriously 
hurt, ^‘the next thing to be done is to re- 
lieve these kind people of the trouble our 


306 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


young folks have caused them.’’ And lie 
glanced about the tiny bedroom, which cer- 
tainly did seem very crowded. ‘^What do 
you say, Doctor, to our taking this little 
girl home as soon as possible!” 

After some discussion, it was arranged 
that father and mother should go back 
with the doctor, and make arrangements 
for having me moved. The doctor said I 
must not attempt to stand, or move my 
knee, and it would be necessary to provide 
some sort of couch for me in the boat, on 
which I could lie during the sail to the 
mainland. Tante would not leave me, 
even for a short time, so the others went 
away without her. 

It was very quiet when they had all 
gone, for Charlie had been taken home, 
and the children were sent out to play on 
the beach. Even Marie and the baby dis- 
appeared for a time, and Tante and I were 
left alone. I was still rather feverish, and 
the doctor wished to have me kept quiet, 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


307 


so Tante drew a chair to the bedside, and 
sat up very straight, as she always does, 
with her hands folded in her lap, but there 
was still that same new look o;n her face, 
and once or twice, when she thought I was 
not looking, I saw her lips move, as if she 
were saying her prayers* She would not 
allow me to talk much, 'although I was dy- 
ing with curiosity to hear about the ex- 
citement caused by our disappearance, 
but she could not prevent my thinking, and 
how could any one possibly rest quietly 
with such a wonderful secret on one’s 
mind? I glanced at the place where 
Tante ’s picture had stood, but it was no 
longer there. 

I did try to keep quiet as directed, but 
although I closed my eyes, no sleep came, 
and at last, when I had been tossing about 
for a long time, and was beginning to feel 
very hot and uncomfortable again, Tante 
spoke. 

‘^Are you in pain, my child?” she 


308 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


asked; laying her hand tenderly on my 
burning forehead. 

‘^No, Tante/^ I answered, eagerly, ^‘but 
it is very hard to lie still and not speak, 
when there are so many questions I want 
to ask. Were you very much frightened 
about me last night 

‘^Frightened cried Tante in a queer, 
choked voice. ‘ ‘ Oh, my little one, you will 
never know — ^you will never understand. 
But the good God has been merciful; he 
has spared me this last sorrow. I do not 
think I could have borne another.’’ 

I don’t know how I did it; it frightens 
me now when I think of it ; but at the mo- 
ment I was so carried away by the thought 
of the wonderful news I had to tell, that I 
actually forgot to be in awe of Tante. 

“You have had a great many sorrows, 
have you not, dear Tante?” I said, impul- 
sively. 

Tante sighed. 

“I have had my share,” she said, sadly; 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 309 

^‘some sent by Heaven, others of my own 
making. ^ ’ 

My heart gave a great bound, and began 
to beat very fast. Was it possible Tante 
was going to speak to me of Paul? I felt 
that if I did not speak then, my courage 
would fail, and afterwards it might be too 
late. 

‘^Do you mean — excuse me for mention- 
ing it, Tante — ^but Suzanne has told me 
about Paul. Were you perhaps thinking 
of him?’^ 

Tante started, but she did not look stem 
or angry, as I feared she would, only very, 
very sad. 

‘‘Yes, Victorine,’^ she said, in a low, 
unsteady voice, “I was thinking of my 
Paul. His loss has been the greatest sor- 
row of my life. All the others — my hus- 
band and Maurice and your dear mother — 
were taken from me by death; it was God^s 
will that they should go, but Paul is not 
dead.^^ 


310 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


‘‘I know he is not dead, Tante/’ I said, 
and my heart beat so loud that I was half 
afraid she would hear it. ‘ ‘ He is married ; 
Suzanne told me.” 

‘^Yes, he is married,” said Tante, 
softly; ‘‘he may have little children; they 
may be poor and suffering, and yet I can- 
not help them. I drove my boy away from 
me, and now, when I would give all I pos- 
sess in the world to find him, I do not even 
know where he is.” 

I could scarcely suppress the cry of joy 
that rose to my lips. In the excitement of 
the moment, I forgot all about my knee, 
and sprang up in bed so suddenly that 
Tante was quite horrified. 

“My dear child,” she said, reprovingly, 
laying a warning hand on my shoulder, 
“you must not jump about like that. Ee- 
member the doctor directions. Why, 
Victorine, child, what is it — what has ex- 
cited you so?” For I was laughing and 
crying both together, and acting in a man- 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


311 


ner which must have seemed to her quite 
hysterical. 

‘^Nothing is the matter, Tante,’’ I 
gasped, with a great effort to control my- 
self, ‘^only — only I am so very glad about 
something. ’ ’ 

^‘What are you glad about T’ Tante in- 
quired, looking very much astonished. 

About cousin Paul,’’ I blurted out. 
am so glad you would like to see him. I 
was afraid that perhaps you would not.” 

Tante looked more astonished than be- 
fore, but she evidently had no suspicion 
as yet. 

would give all I have to see my boy 
once more before I die,” she said, gravely, 
‘‘but really, Victorine, I cannot allow you 
to excite yourself in this manner. I am 
afraid you are very feverish.” 

“No, I am not,” I said, impatiently, “I 
am only happy. Oh, Tante, it is beautiful 
to know that you love me so much ! ’ ’ 

“Did you ever doubt my love, Victor- 


312 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


ine?’’ Tante asked, in a tone of snch sur- 
prise and reproacli, that I began to feel 
a little ashamed of myself. 

always knew you loved me a little, of 
course,’’ I said, apologetically, ^‘but it is 
so wonderful to have you talk to me like 
this about — about Paul. You have al- 
ways treated me as if I were a little child, 
you know.” 

I felt myself growing more embarrassed 
and involved every moment, but I think 
Tante was beginning to understand. 

‘‘Victorine,” she said in a voice that 
trembled very much, ‘^ever since I lost 
your dear mother, and your father brought 
you to me, I have loved you better than 
any other thing on earth. But it was a 
selfish love, for I wanted to have it all to 
myself. I was jealous of your loving any 
one else, even your own father. Last 
night when your stepmother and I sat to- 
gether through all those terrible hours of 
suspense, I seemed strangely drawn to 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


313 


her. Then the good God opened my eyes, 
and I saw how selfish I had been. I 
prayed to be forgiven for my fault, and 
vowed that if you were spared to me I 
would try to atone. I have been hard and 
narrow all my life, but one cannot help be- 
ing softened by coming into contact with 
such people as your father and step- 
mother. ’ ’ 

‘‘Tante,’^ I cried, ^‘oh dear, dear 
Tante!^’ and I held out my arms to her, 
my heart so full of love and joy that it 
seemed almost as if it must burst. In that 
moment every particle of my fear and awe 
of Tante were swept away, and I Bssed 
her and clung to her with as little embar- 
rassment as if she had been Suzanne. 
Tante held me very close, and we both 
cried a little, and then all at once my 
thoughts flew back to Paul with a rush, 
for Marie came softly into the room, with 
the baby in her arms. 

At sight of Marie, Tante rose hastily. 


314 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


brushing away the tears, and went for- 
ward to greet her, with a smile and an 
outstretched hand. 

am afraid I have not half thanked 
you for all your kindness to my little girl, ’ ’ 
she said in the pleasant voice that always 
wins poor people. Marie blushed and 
trembled a little, and murmured some- 
thing about not having done anything 
worth being thanked for, but Tante only 
smiled. 

‘‘Is it not an odd coincidence that we 
should meet this lady again, Tante I 
said, eagerly. ‘ ‘ She says her little AngMe 
has never forgotten how good you were to 
her that night on the train. ’ ’ 

Tante looked pleased and asked Marie 
about Angele, and then she led her on to 
talk of the baby and of little Paul, until 
the dear little woman quite forgot to be 
embarrassed. I was almost bursting with 
excitement and impatience, but was afraid 
to say anything that might hasten matters 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


315 


too much. I could see by Tautens manner 
that she liked Marie very much, and when 
Angele and Paul came running in, she 
would not let their mother send them 
away, but took Angele on her lap, and 
asked Paul to recite a French fable about 
which Marie had been telling her. And 
then at last came the question I had been 
waiting for so long. 

‘^And where is your husband, Madame? 
Am I not to have the pleasure of thank- 
ing him also? It was he who brought my 
brother-in-law the good news that the 
children were safe, and from what I can 
learn, he appears to have had a good deal 
to do with their rescue.” 

‘‘He saved my life, Tante,” I cried. 
‘ ‘ Charlie could never have carried me 
over all those rocks, and if Madame ’s hus- 
band had not come in time, I should have 
been drowned when the tide came up.” 

Tante was very much moved, for she 
had not fully realized my danger before, 


316 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


and she made me tell the whole story, 
quite forgetting in her excitement, the doc- 
tor’s injunction that I should be kept 
quiet. When I had finished, she turned to 
Marie, her eyes full of tears. 

‘‘I must see your husband,” she said in 
the tone of command which no one ever 
thinks of disobeying. ‘‘If he will not 
come to me, I must go to him. WTiere is 
he?” 

“I will bring him,” said Marie in a very 
low voice. “Come, children.” And she 
left the room, taking the children with 
her. 

“Tante,” I said, when we were alone, 
“do you know that you never asked Ma- 
dame her name?” 

“I did not think of it,” said Tante, “but 
I will ask. She is a charming little 
woman, and the children are most attrac- 
tive. ’ ’ 

“I know her name, Tante,” I said 
breathlessly, “and — and, it is such a 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 317 

strange thing — ^her name is De Balfour; 
Madame de Balfour.” 

Tante gave a violent start, and the color 
went out of her face. 

^^Be Balfour,” she repeated, in a low 
agitated voice; Madame de Balfour, and 
the hoy^s name is Paul.” 

‘‘Yes, is it not strange?” I said, and I 
was sure Tante must see how I was trem- 
bling. “And there is something else very 
strange, too. I think they must know you, 
for — oh, Tante dear, I donT quite know 
how to tell you — the first thing I saw when 
I woke last night was your photograph 
standing on the table by the lamp.” 

Tante was trembling violently, and had 
grown so white that I was afraid she was 
going to faint. 

“Victorine,” she cried,, hoarsely, “tell 
me what this means. I can see by your 
face that you know something; you are 
keeping something back from me. This 
man De Balfour is not — is not — ” 


318 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


‘‘Yes he is, Tante!’^ I sobbed, for the 
tears were streaming down my cheeks by 
this time, and I was almost beside myself 
with joy and excitement. “He is your 
own Paul, safe and well ! Oh, Tante, 
isn’t it wonderful and beautiful, and won’t 
you be glad to see him?” 

But Tante did not answer, for at that 
moment there was a sound of approach- 
ing footsteps, and Paul himself was stand- 
ing in the door-way. He was almost as 
pale as Tante, and for one moment they 
stood gazing at each other in perfect si- 
lence. Then Tante moved slowly towards 
him, holding out both hands. 

“Paul,” she said in a voice that did not 
sound in the least like Tante ’s, it was so 
low and broken; “Paul, my son, will you 
forgive your mother ? ’ ’ 

Paul did not say a word, but he caught 
her in his arms, and she fell on his breast, 
sobbing and crying, as I had never 
dreamed that Tante could cry. And the 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


319 


rest was all so beautiful and so sacred that 
I don’t think I ought to write about it even 
in this little book, which is very private, 
and which I shall never show to any one 
but the people I love best in the world. 

August Fifteenth. 

It is Sunday afternoon, and I am all 
alone by myself. Every one else is out, 
even Tante. The De Balfours have been 
dining with us, and father has taken them 
home in his boat, and all the others have 
gone, too. Tante appears to have forgot- 
ten all about her fear of boats, and she is 
constantly going back and forth to the is- 
land, with either father or Paul. She 
even went once with the boys, but that was 
when she had not seen Paul for two days, 
and was sure something must be wrong 
with the family. She is never quite con- 
tented when Paul is out of her sight, and 
as for the children she really does spoil 
them dreadfully, and they adore her. She 


320 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


never spoiled me, but then tbe Tante I 
have known all my life is a very different 
person from the Tante of the past three 
weeks. Charlie said to me yesterday that 
my aunt was ‘‘really quite a jolly old lady, 
after all, and not half bad, ^ ’ and though it 
did not sound very respectful, I am sure 
Charlie did not mean to be rude, and he al- 
ways says what he means. 

I have been very happy ever since they 
brought me home from the island, although 
for the first few days I was too ill to see 
any one but Tante and mother. The ex- 
citement and exposure, added to the in- 
jury to my knee, brought on a severe fever- 
ish attack, and for a day or two the doctor 
feared I was going to have pneumonia. 
But by the end of a week I was so much 
better that Peggy and Maud were allowed 
to come and sit with me, and since then 
life has been simply delightful. 

I came down to dinner for the first time 
to-day. I am not yet able to use my knee. 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


321 


but father carried me downstairs, and I 
lay on the sofa in the dining-room, and 
every one was so kind to me. I really 
think they are all rather fond of me, and I 
know father and mother both love me 
dearly. It was so delightful to see them 
all together again, with Paul and Marie 
and the children. Suzanne took charge of 
the baby upstairs, but Angele and Paul 
were both at the table; Paul sitting beside 
his grandmother, and claiming much more 
of her attention than I should ever have 
been allowed to do, and Angele between 
Peggy and Maud, who both make a great 
pet of her. Father and Paul talked a 
good deal about art, and I saw Tante’s 
eyes shine with pride every time she 
looked at her handsome son. Father 
knows something about pictures himself, 
and he has told her that Paul has a great 
deal of talent. 

But I think what has made me happiest 
to-day is the little talk I had with Tante 


322 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


this morning when every one else was at 
church. In the first place, Tante has read 
my book. If any one had told me when I 
began that she would ever read even a 
page, I do not think I should have had the 
courage to go on, but things are very dif- 
ferent now, and Tante asked me yesterday 
if I would have any objection to letting 
her see what I have been writing all sum- 
mer; I did not feel at all nervous, and 
handed her the book at once, without any 
hesitation. I think she must have read it 
all through last night, and sat up late to 
finish it, for once when I woke I saw the 
light still burning in her room, and a little 
after that the clock struck twelve. This 
morning, when all the others had gone to 
church, she brought me back the book, and 
then we had that long happy talk. Tante 
was not at all angry at anything I had 
written, but she said some of it had made 
her sad. She was afraid she had not al- 
ways been as much of a friend to me as 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


323 


she ought to have been. It made me very 
uncomfortable to have Tante talk like 
that, especially when she said she hoped 
I would forgive her for any seeming cold- 
ness, and remember always how dearly 
she loved me. I kissed her, and told her 
how much I loved her, and how I should 
always try to be her own dutiful child, 
and she said she hoped I would, but that 
I must remember that I owed a debt to 
my father and stepmother as well. Then 
she told me of her plans. She wants to go 
home early in September, and to take Paul 
and his family with her. She is sure an 
old friend of hers, who is a famous Paris 
surgeon, will be able to help little AngMe, 
and is anxious to place the child in his care 
as soon as possible. She wants to establish 
them all in an apartment in Paris, with a 
studio for Paul, and she may spend some 
time there herself before going back to the 
villa. Father and mother are not willing 
to give me up so soon, and so it has been 


324 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


arranged that I am to stay here for the 
rest of the summer, and to go back to New 
York with them in the autumn. Then in 
the winter father will take mother and me 
abroad and Tante has promised to join us 
in Italy, and perhaps we may all go to 
Egypt together. That news almost took 
away my breath. I have so wanted to 
travel and visit wonderful places, and the 
thought of seeing them, with Tante and 
father and mother all together, seems al- 
most too good to be true. Then Tante 
told me that my real home must be in 
America, because it is only right that I 
should live with my father, but he has 
promised that I shall spend a part of ev- 
ery year with her, so we are not to be 
really separated, after all. I am so glad, 
for dearly as I have grown to love father 
and mother, and hard as it would be to 
part from them, I could never be quite 
happy away from Tante. 

But I hear the others on the veranda, 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


325 


and that means that Maud and Peggy will 
be up here in a few minutes, and this will 
be the last opportimity I shall have for 
writing to-day. 


August Thibty-fiest. 

It will be just three months to-morrow 
since I began to write my book. I thought 
then that it would surely take me years 
to fill all the pages, and now I find that 
there are only a very few left, and I must 
fill them to-day. Then I will lock the lit- 
tle book away in my desk, and perhaps 
some time, when I am grown up, I may 
like to read it over, and recall all the 
events of this wonderful, beautiful sum- 
mer. I am sure there will never be an- 
other summer in my life quite like it. 

Tante, Paul, Marie and the children, 
have all gone. They left yesterday, and 
it seems very strange without them. I 
could not help crying when the moment of 
parting came, and I clung to Tante, and 


326 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


she clung to me, but we are to meet again 
in January, and four months is not such a 
very long time. Paul and Marie were so 
glad to go. Marie told me she had not 
been able to sleep for a week, through 
pure joy at the thought of seeing her 
mother and sisters again. AngMe has 
been under the care of Dr. Brooks for the 
past month, and has improved so much 
that they are almost sure now an opera- 
tion will not be necessary. Father told 
me that he and mother both think very 
highly of Paul. He has worked so hard, 
and been so brave and cheerful through 
all his troubles and difficulties. They are 
all to sail from New York on Saturday, 
and I am so glad to know Tante will have 
Paul and Marie to take care of her on the 
voyage. Suzanne — ^who has, of course, 
gone with them — is the devoted slave of 
all the children, especially Paul, who she 
declares is the very image of what his 
father was at his age. She cried when it 


yiCTOEINE^S BOOK 


327 


came to the saying good-bye to me, but 
was greatly consoled when Tante told her 
they would not engage a nurse in New 
York, and that she is to have entire 
charge of all the children until they reach 
Paris. 

Tante ’s going was only the beginning 
of the general breaking-up. To-morrow 
the Eliots and Peggy all leave. They are 
to meet Mr. and Mrs. Eliot in New York, 
and all go back to California together. 
Peggy was to have left nearly a month 
ago, when her sister and brother-in-law 
went home from Bar Harbor, but mother 
and Maud begged so hard to have her 
stay, that her sister consented to leave her, 
and now she will go as far as New York 
with the Eliots, and they will all spend a 
week at the Lees’ home in New Jersey be- 
fore starting for California. Father is 
going to New York with them, but mother 
and I are to stay here another week, to 
close the house, and then we are to go back 


328 


VICTORINE’S BOOK 


by way of Boston, which Peggy says is a 
very interesting city to visit I shall miss 
them all very much, but it will be beautiful 
to have dear mother all to myself for a 
whole week. I have had to share her with 
so many others all summer. 

We went for our last sail this afternoon. 
My knee is still a little troublesome, and 
I cannot walk far, but the boys helped me 
over the rocks, and it was heavenly on the 
bay. We were all quieter than usual. 
There is always something sad about do- 
ing things for the last time, even though 
we hope to be here again next summer. 
Nobody seemed to feel much like talking, 
not even the boys, and at last Maud put all 
our feelings into words by saying: 
hate last times, donT youT’ 

‘‘Yes,’’ said Peggy and I both together. 
“It’s been such a jolly summer,” Maud 
went on, with a sigh. “It seems a pity it 
couldn’t keep right on. It makes me tired 
to think of winter and school. If I were 


yiCTOEINE^S BOOK 


329 


a lucky dog like Vic, and were going to 
‘walk the streets of Cairo,’ I wouldn’t ob- 
ject so much to having the summer come 
to an end. But school! Oh, I do wish I 
were eighteen instead of fourteen!” 

“Your turn to travel will come all in 
good time,” said Dick. “You know the 
pater has promised to take us all n6xt 
trip.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Maud, her face 
brightening, “and after all, it is jolly to 
think of seeing the pater and mater again, 
and California isn’t a bad place to live in.” 

“I should think not,” said Peggy. 
“It’s one of the most beautiful places in 
the world, I think. But this has been a 
lovely summer, and we can’t help being 
sorry to have it over. Aunt Jennie has 
invited me to come for another long visit 
next year, and I do hope I can.” 

“You and Vic will see a lot of each other 
this winter,” said Maud, “for Montclair 
is so near New York that you’ll be sure to 


330 


yiCTORINE^S BOOK 


meet very often. You must both write me 
perfect volumes.’^ 

“We will/’ promised Peggy, and I 
added : 

“I will keep a diary and send it to you 
every week. I love to write. ’ ’ 

“I should think you did,” said Maud, 
laughing. “I wish I liked it half as much. 
I shouldn’t dread compositions then. But 
you must write in English, remember; I 
shall have all the French I can stand in 
school. ’ ’ 

I promised that I would write in 
English, and indeed, my English has im- 
proved so much this summer, that it seems 
almost as easy as French now. We often 
laugh together over the funny mistakes I 
used to make, and it makes me quite 
ashamed to remember how foolishly sensi- 
tive I was at first. One cannot help being 
cured of a good many foolish things by 
living in the same house with such jolly, 
sensible people as the Eliots. 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


331 


<<IVe got an idea,’’ said Dick, suddenly, 
propose that we offer a vote of thanks 
to Uncle Walter and Aunt Jennie for all 
the jolly things they’ve done for ns this 
summer. ’ ’ 

‘‘Good!” we all cried; “how shall we 
do it?” 

“This evening after supper,” said Dick, 
“somebody must get up and make a little 
speech, and then we’ll all drink their 
health, and wish them long life and hap- 
piness, and all that sort of thing, you 
know.” 

“What are we to drink their health in,” 
Maud asked, “and who will make the 
speech?” 

“I’ll ask Katie to give us a bottle of 
ginger-ale,” said Dick, “and we’ll have it 
all ready to bring out at the right minute. 
Vic had better make the speech; she’s the 
only author of the party.” 

I protested that indeed I was not an au- 
thor, and could not possibly make a 


332 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 


speech, but Dick has heard of my book, 
and he declared I could, and so did all 
the others. I was very much embarrassed, 
hut they are all so good to me that I hate 
to seem disobliging in any way, so at last 
I consented, and all the way home I 
was trying to compose a little speech in 
English. French would have been much 
easier, but the boys would not have under- 
stood. 

When we reached the landing, Maud, 
Peggy and Dick went to say good-bye to 
some friends, but Charlie said he hated 
saying good-bye, so he and I walked up to 
the house together. I had to walk very 
slowly, on account of my knee, but Charlie 
did not seem to mind, and even let me 
lean on his arm, which was very kind, for 
he does not like walking with girls. I 
thanked him, and told him I appreciated 
his kindness very much, but he did not 
seem pleased at my mentioning it. In- 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 333 

deed, tie grew very red, and looked rather 
cross. 

Don’t talk rnbbish, Vic,” he said. I 
am glad he didn’t say ‘^rot” for I hate 
that word. ‘^You know I don’t mind do- 
ing things for you. You’re the nicest girl 
I know, and — and there’s something I’ve 
wanted to say to you for ever so long.” 

‘^What is it?” I asked, very much sur- 
prised, and a good deal flattered, too, for 
I had no idea Charlie thought me the nicest 
girl he knew. 

^‘It’s about that joke I played on you,” 
said Charlie, blushing more than ever, and 
looking so uncomfortable that I was really 
sorry for him. ‘^You know the one I 
mean — about the fits. You were a brick 
never to tell Aunt Jennie or the girls.” 

‘‘Of course I would not tell,” I said, a 
little indignantly, for if there is one thing 
I despise in a person, it is telling tales. 
“I was very angry, at first, but afterward. 


334 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


when you were so brave, and saved my 
life, I was sorry I had talked to you as I 
did.^» 

‘‘You talked all right,’’ declared Charlie, 
magnanimously, “and I deserved every 
word you said. You behaved mighty de- 
cent about the whole row. There would 
have been an awful fuss if it had come 
out. Even Dick says it’s low to play jokes 
on girls, and Uncle Walter and Aunt 
Jennie would have been angry. It was a 
mean thing to do, and I’m sorry I did it — 
so there!” 

“Do not think any more about it,” I 
said. “I suppose it must have been a 
great temptation to tease me at first when 
I was so foolish.” 

“You were all right,” said Charlie, 
“though I had no idea what a sport you 
were till the night of the fog. But what 
I want to say is, if I can ever do anything 
for you — ^you never get into scrapes, so I 
suppose I can’t help you out of one — but 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


335 


if there ever is anything, no matter what, 
I’ll be mighty glad to do it.” 

Before I could answer, father — who had 
seen us from the veranda — came to meet 
us, and he took my other arm, and we all 
walked to the house together. I had only 
time to give Charlie one grateful look be- 
fore I went in to dress for supper, but I 
think he understood and was satisfied. 
How strange it seems now to think that I 
could ever have disliked Charlie ! 

Peggy, Maud, and I, all put on our pret- 
tiest dresses, and all the time I was dress- 
ing, I was trying to compose my speech. 
I was not at all satisfied with it myself, but 
Peggy — to whom I recited it before going 
downstairs — seemed to think it would do. 
Father and mother did not suspect that 
anything was going to happen, but Dick 
whispered to me that he had procured the 
ginger-ale from Katie, and I passed on the 
news to Peggy and Maud. 

Mother had a specially good supper, be- 


336 


VICTOEINE’S BOOK 


cause it was the Eliots’ last evening, and 
the boys ate so much peach ice-cream, that 
father declared they would surely be ill. 
At last every one had finished, and father 
and mother were just about to push back 
their chairs from the table, when Dick 
made a sign to me, and I rose, my heart 
beating very fast. 

^‘Ladies and gentlemen,” I began, in a 
rather frightened voice, have been re- 
quested to offer a vote of thanks from us 
all to Monsieur and Madame Maitland, for 
all their great kindness to us this sum- 
mer.”. (I ought to have said Mr. and Mrs. 
Maitland, as the speech was in English, 
but in my embarrassment I forgot; Mon- 
sieur and Madame sounded so much more 
natural.) ‘^We want to say that we have 
never had such a happy summer before in 
our lives — at least I have not — and to 
thank them for everything, including ten- 
nis, motor rides, and most of all for the 
beautiful new sailboat, presented by Mon- 


VICTORINE^S BOOK 


337 


sieur Maitland to replace the one that went 
to pieces on the rocks the night of the fog. 
Now let ns all drink the health of Monsieur 
and Madame Maitland, and if I have made 
any mistakes in this speech— not being ac- 
customed to making speeches in English — 
I want you please to remember that I shall 
not object in the least to your laughing just 
as much as you like.’’ 

How they did laugh! The boys fairly 
shouted, and father leaned back in his 
chair, and laughed till there were tears in 
his eyes. I did not mind in the very least, 
and joined in the laughter myself, as 
heartily as any one. Then we drank 
father’s and mother’s health, and father 
jumped up, and made a little speech in his 
turn, in which he thanked us for all con- 
tributing to giving mother and himself a 
very happy summer, and hoped we should 
all be together again next year. 

We had a very merry evening, but the 
best part of it for me was when the others 


338 


YICTOEINE’S BOOK 


had gone upstairs, and father detained me, 
as I was bidding him good-night. 

‘^Well, Vic darling,” he said, with his 
arm round me, and looking very ear- 
nestly into my face, ‘^do you think you can 
be happy with us for a little while, even 
without Tante?” 

‘^Indeed I can,” I answered in a voice 
quite as earnest as his own. ‘‘I love 
Tante very dearly, and I am so glad she 
mil go to Egypt with us next winter, but 
I have never been quite so happy before in 
my life. When I think of living with you 
and mother, and of how beautiful it is to 
be loved, I feel — oh, I cannot express it, 
except that I wish every one else in the 
world were as happy as I am ! ’ ’ 

The foolish tears choked me, and would 
not let me say any more, but I think father 
understood, for, though all he said was, 
‘‘That’s right, little girl; that’s just how 
your mother and I want you to feel,” he 


VICTOEINE^S BOOK 339 

kissed me very tenderly, and there was 
snch a glad light in his eyes. 

I am on the very last page of my book, 
so I must stop writing, thongh I should 
like to go on for another hour. I suppose 
all I have written will sound very foolish 
when I am older, and have learned what 
really good writing means, but I know I 
shall always cherish this little book, just 
because it is the first I ever wrote, and be- 
cause it will help to recall what I am sure 
must always remain the happiest and most 
interesting summer of my life. 


THE END 



DOROTHY BROWN 

By NINA RHOADES 

Illustrated by Elizabeth Withington Large 12mo 
Cloth $1.50 

'^HIS is considerably longer than the other 
* books by this favorite writer, and with a 
more elaborate plot, but it has the same win- 
some quality throughout. It introduces the 
heroine in New York as a little girl of eight, 
but soon passes over six years and finds her at 
a select family boarding school in Connecticut. 
An important part of the story also takes place 
at the Profile House in the White Mountains. 
The charm of school-girl friendship is finely 
brought out, and the kindness of heart, good 
sense and good taste which find constant ex- 
pression in the books by Miss Rhoades do not 
lack for characters to show these best of 
qualities by their lives. Other less admirable 
persons of course appear to furnish the alluring mystery, which is not 
all cleared up until the very last. 

“There will be no better book than this to put into the hands of a girl in 
her teens and none that will be better appreciated by her .” — Kennebec ./ournal, 

MARION’S VACATION 

By NINA RHOADES 

Illustrated by Bertha Q. Davidson 12nio Cloth $1.25 

T his book is for the older girls, Marion 
being thirteen. She has for ten years 
enjoyed a luxurious home in New York with 
the kind lady who feels that the time has now 
come for this aristocratic though lovable little 
miss to know her own nearest kindred, who 
are humble but most excellent farming people 
in a pretty Vermont village. Thither Marion 
is sent for a summer, which proves to be a 
most important one to her in all its lessons. 

“ More wholesome reading for half grown girls 
It would be hard to find; some of the same lessons 
that proved so helpful in that classic of the last 
generation ‘An Old Fashioned Girl* are brought 
home to the youthful readers of this sweet and 
sensible story .” — Miltuaukee Free Press. 


For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of 
price by the publishers 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., Boston 




Only DolHe 

By Nina Rhoades Illustrated by Bertha Davidsoq 


Square i2mo Cloth $i.oo 

^HIS is a brightly wntten story of a girl of | 


* twelve, who, when the mystery of her birth j[ 
is solved, like Cinderella, passes from drudgery to |i 
better circumstances. There is nothing strained | 
or unnatural at any point. All descriptions or 1 
portrayals of character are hfe-like, and the 
book has an indescribable appealing quality ' 
which wins sympathy and secures success. 

“It is deli^tful reading at all times.” — Cedar 
Rapids (/a.) Republican, \ 

“ It is well written, the story runs smoothly, the idea | 
is good, and it is nandled with Khility,— Chicago 
Joufaal, 

8 

The Little Girl Next Door® 

— — NINA RHOADES^ 



By Nina Rhoades Large i2mo Cloth Illustrated 
by Bertha Davidson $i.oo 


A DELIGHTFUL story of true and genuine friendship between an 
impulsive little girl in a fine New York home and a little blind girl 
in an apartment next door. The little girl’s determination to cultivate 
the acquaintance, begun out of the window during a rainy day, triumphs 
over the barriers of caste, and the little blind girl proves to be in every 
way a worthy companion. Later a mystery of birth is cleared up, and the 
little blind girl proves to be of gentle birth as well as of gentle manners. 



Winifred’s Neighbors 

By Nina Rhoades Illustrated 
by Bertha G. Davidson Large 
i2mo Cloth $1.00 

T ITTLE Winifred’s efforts io find some 
children of whom she reads in a book 
lead to the acquaintance of a neighbor 
of the same name, and this acquaintance 
proves of the greatest importance to Winifred’s 
own family. Through it all she is just such a 
little girl as other girls ought to know, and 
the -ly will hold the interest of all ages. 


For sale by all booksellers^ or sent postpaid on receipt 
of price by the publishers 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON 


The Children on the Top Floor 

By Nina Rhoades Large 121110 
Cloth Illustrated by Bertha 
Davidson $1.00 

this book little Winifred Hamilton, the 
child heroine of “Winifred’s Neighbors,” 
reappears, living in the second of the four 
stories of a New York apartment house. On 
the top floor are two very interesting children, 

Betty, a little older than Winifred, who is now 
ten, and Jack, a brave little cripple, who is a 
year younger. In the end comes a glad re- 
union, and also other good fortune for crippled 
Jack, and Winifred’s kind little heart has once 
more indirectly caused great happiness to others. 

How Barbara Kept Her Promise 

By Nina Rhoades Large 12 mo Cloth Illustrated 
by Bertha Davidson $1.00 

T WO orphan sisters, Barbara, aged twelve, and little Hazel, who is 
“only eight,” are sent from their early home in London to their 
mother’s family in New York. Faithful Barbara has promised her father 
that she will take care of pretty, petted, mischievous Hazel, and how she 
tries to do this, even in the face of great difficulties, forms the story which 
has the happy ending which Miss Rhoades wisely gives to all her stories. 

Little Miss Rosa mond 

By Nina Rhoades Illus- 
trated by Bertha G. Davidson 
Large i 2 mo Cloth $1.00 

R osamond lives in Richmond, Va., 
with her big brother, who cannot 
give her all the comfort that she needs in 
the trying hot weather, and she goes to the 
seaside cottage of an uncle whose home 
is in New York. Here she meets Gladys 
and Joy, so well known in a previous 
book, “The Little Girl Next Door,” and 
after some complications are straightened 
out, bringing Rosamond’s honesty and 
kindness of heart into prominence, all are made very happy. 




For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt 
of price by the publishers 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON 



** Brick House Books** 

By NINA RHOADES 

Cloth I into Illustrated $1.00 each 


Priscilla of the 

Doll Shop 

‘^HE “Brick House Books,” as they are 
called from their well-known cover de- 
signs, are eagerly sought by children all over 
the country. There are three good stories in 
this book, instead of one, and it is hard to 
say which little girls, and boys, too, for that 
matter, will like the best. 

Little Peggy 

DEGGY comes from California to New Jersey to live with a brother and 
sister whom she has not known since very early childhood. She is so 
democratic in her socialideas that many amusing scenes occur, and it is 
hard for her to understand many things that she must learn. But her good 
heart carries her through, and her conscientiousness and moral courage 
win affection and happiness. 

The Other Sylvia 

P^IGHT-year-old Sylvia learns that girls who 
are “ Kings’ Daughters ” pledge themselves 
to some kind act or service, and that one little 
girl named Mary has taken it upon herself to be 
helpful to all the Marys of her acquaintance. 
This is such an interesting way of doing good that 
she adopts it in spite of her unusual name, and 
really finds not only the other Sylvia,” but great 
happiness. 





For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of 
price by the publishers 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON 


BRAVE HEART SERIES 

By Adele E* Thompson 

Illustrated T2mo Cloth $i .25 per volume 

Betty Seldon, Patriot 

A BOOK that is at the same time fascinating and noble. Historical 
events are accurately traced leading up to the surrender of Corn- 
wallis at Yorktown, with reunion and happiness for all who deserve it. 

Brave Heart Elizabeth 

TT is a story of the making of the Ohio frontier, much of it taken from 
I life, and the heroine one of the famous Zane family after which Zanes- 
ville, O., takes its name. An accurate, pleasing, and yet at times intensely 
thrilling picture of the stirring period of border settlement. 

A Lassie of the Isles 

'T'HIS is the romantic story of Flora Macdonald, the lassie of Skye, who 
I aided in the escape of Charles Stuart, otherwise known as the 
“Young Pretender.” 

Polly of the Pines 

T he events of the story occur in the years 1775-82. Polly was an 
orphan living with her mother’s family, who were Scotch High- 
landers, and for the most part intensely loyal to the Crown. Polly finds 
the glamor of royal adherence hard to resist, but her heart turns towards 
the patriots and she does much to aid and encourage them. 


American Patty 

A Story of 1812 

TDATTY is a brave, winsome girl of sixteen 
whose family have settled across the Cana- 
dian border and are living in peace and 
prosperity, and on the best of terms with the 
neighbors and friendly Indians. All this is 
suddenly and entirely changed by the breaking 
out of war, and unwillingness on the part of 
her father and brother to serve against their 
native land brings distress and deadly peril. 



For sale by all booksellers^ or sent postpaid on receipt 
of price ly the publi^ers 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON 


HESTER SERIES 

By JEAN K. BAIRD 

12mo Cloth Illustrated $1.25 each 


The Coming of Hester 


H ester comes as a mysterious waif to the 
home of a lone woman, still young, but 
who has settled down into a narrow life, 
which expands as the child rapidly develops 
into mature girlhood. The principal part of 
the story, in fact, takes place when Hester 
has reached high school age. 

Such books as “The Coming of Hester” are 
healthy, wholesome reading — the kind which will 
help girls t<^row into the right sort of women. — 
Cleveland iZwn Topics. 

It is a well-told story, pure and healthful in its 
influence and nature. — Telescope^ Day. 
ton, O, 


Hester’s Counterpart 

I_JESTER becomes a pupil at a seminary in 
I- the suburbs of a small city. Her room- 
mate is Helen Loraine, for whom the other 
girls are continually mistaking her. Misun- 
derstandings arise, and a reconciliation comes 
in a time of peril from flood. What transpires 
then adds the crowning interest to one of the 
season’s ablest and best stories for girls. 

Like its predecessor it is a clean, interesting; sto^ 
of young girl life — the kind of a book all girls in 
their teens like to xe^2A. — Cincinnati Times Star, 
It is a fine story with just an element of mystery 
to give spice to it. — Buffalo Express, 

A fine story, well told. — Beli^ious Telescope^ 
Dayton, O. 




For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt 
of price by the publishers, 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON 




* * 





30 


1911 


One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
AUO 30 



